


The Meticulous Art Of The Alternate Manifest

by orphan_account



Series: all of our magics [5]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, But mostly angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Ghosts, M/M, The power of friendship, Theodosia Is A Medium, remember how last time i said that hamilton needed a therapist?, so many ghosts, yeah well now everybody needs one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-04 14:48:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12773307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Not long ago, she began hearing whispers from the ghosts about a child whose magic felt different than others’. “It’s true,” a ghost with the marks of a noose around his neck once said to her, “I’ve been near the boy, and I can feel how different his magic is from others. I’ve told you that yours is unique, but it’s different from yours, too.”“What is his magic like, then?”After a few moments, the ghost replied, “ambiguity.” Then, as an afterthought, added, “almost like poetry.”





	1. remember us- if at all- not as lost

**Author's Note:**

> You remember when I posted Someone To Say Goodbye To, and I said that it was an 'odd bit of worldbuilding I'm probably never going touch again?' Yeah, no. Anyways, enjoy this 29k monstrosity that was only supposed to be the length of the original. It's going to be split into five chapters. Each chapter title is quoted from [TS Eliot's The Hollow Men poem ](https://www2.bc.edu/john-g-boylan/files/thehollowmen.pdf).Like the first, this story was self-edited, so please point out any errors or awkward phrasings. Now, have fun reading!

Theodosia thought herself to be very much like her father. Calm, cautionary, predictive. Besides her studies, Theodosia read a lot, and wrote letters to her father when he was away. She didn’t have any friends her age to write to, but she was pleasant and polite to strangers, and was told she was likeable and mature for a child.

Of course, most of the people she spoke to were the spirits of those who had died. Continental soldiers that had been slaughtered by the Redcoats when they had occupied New York, men and women who had sympathized with the cause and were subsequently hanged for treason. Teenagers, even, walking the streets in blue and red, their own blood spilled so that their side might maybe win a war that they didn’t quite understand. So many spirits that were wandering, unseen, with no ability to right whatever wrongs kept them from the afterlife.

New York City was a haven for ghosts.

This layer of spirits and regretful dead was one that only Theodosia could see. Her eyes, while sweeping over a crowd, seemed to never fail in sticking to a face that Theodosia instinctively knew belonged to a ghost. It wasn’t anything specific that told her, not really. Most of them had sad faces, regretful and in thought. Their pace was a slow amble compared to the bustling of the rest of the city’s population, and their faces turned every which way, in search of something that countered their eternal boredom.

This happened often on the walks that she took through the city with her father. Though barely, she could understand the concerned glint in his eyes whenever a spirit was apparent to Theodosia. There were many stories of malevolent ghosts that wreaked havoc on those that they haunted. As far as Theodosia could tell, though, most if not all of them were merely urban legend.

Still, Theodosia never felt the urge to stray from the precautions that her father put in place for her. She wasn’t allowed to talk to former soldiers unless her father was nearby. If the spirit seemed deranged, Theodosia was to politely end the conversation and find her father immediately. And, most importantly, she wasn’t allowed to tell anyone that she had alternate manifest.

Having alternate manifest meant that a person showed signs of magical ability, but not in a way that was the norm. Some were prophets, or could understand animals, or could understand any language that they heard or saw. Theodosia had never tried to deny what she was, though. It was a fact of life that she was a medium.

In many ways, it was dangerous to have alternate manifest. Firstly, it gave you an undesirable sort of celebrity. To have such a rare ability was to be coveted as a fashionable anecdote, paraded around parlor rooms as some sort of interesting artifact. Sometimes, it wasn’t just being surrounded by relentless, heartless schmoozing. There were reports of a number of people with alternate manifest being kidnapped or even murdered solely due to how their magic was expressed. Secondly, research was few and far between. Those with alternate manifest could hurt themselves through lack of correct information on how to use their powers. And, because of the first reason, not many trusted the few researchers that had a genuine interest in researching alternate manifests.

If it had been available, Theodosia’s father would’ve had her read every credible source about mediumship. Instead, her studies had to focus on the spells and rituals that her alternate manifest took from her. The meanings of the spells, the properties of individual ingredients in potions. Yet, only one book from her extensive collection mentioned mediumship. Statistically, it said, one medium is born every thirty years.

That was why Theodosia was so shocked when she saw a boy, one who was  a bit year or so older than she was, having a quiet conversation with a ghost like it was the most natural thing in the world. About six years old at the time, Theodosia froze in her tracks and stared at the two boy and ghost, causing her father to tug gently on her hand. He stopped when he saw what she was looking at. After he picked her up in order to carry her on his hip, he said, “that’s the Hamilton boy, Philip. We ought to be going. His father and I aren’t on the best of terms right now, and I’d rather not have a confrontation.”

With that, their walk at the park was put to an abrupt end. But, on their way home, her father bought a bag of pastries for the two of them to share. The two of them snacked on the pastries while reading a book on the couch, the two of them taking turns reading aloud. It was a very nice day, and Theodosia fell asleep quickly.

But that wasn’t enough to quell Theodosia’s curiosity of Philip.

Not long ago, she began hearing whispers from the ghosts about a child whose magic felt different than others’. “It’s true,” a ghost with the marks of a noose around his neck once said to her, “I’ve been near the boy, and I can feel how different his magic is from others. I’ve told you that yours is unique, but it’s different from yours, too.”

“What _is_ his magic like, then?”

After a few moments, the ghost replied, “ambiguity.” Then, as an afterthought, added, “almost like poetry.”

It did not take long for Theodosia to piece together that this feeling of poetry was originating from Philip.

She’d heard secondhand concerns of the Hamiltons in regards to their son’s seeming inability to cast any spells, despite every sign showing that the boy was born with magic. Her father commented on it enough for Theodosia to know that he was concerned in his own way. Her tutor, who also schooled Philip, mentioned it once or twice, as well, while talking with her father. She asked the both of them for more answers, but it seemed that they were both more clueless than Theodosia was.

Not quite liking the feeling of viewing a situation with incomprehension, Theodosia decided to turn the investigation over to her own hands.

In other words, she’d taken to stalking the boy to the best of her ability.

(Her father, it seemed, incorrectly assumed that Theodosia had began crushing on Philip with great resignation, and let her follow around Philip for a few hours every day, so as long as her studies didn’t suffer. Theodosia wondered why her father didn’t guess that Philip was being haunted. Theodosia also wondered why she didn’t just tell him.)

Most of the time, Philip was with either his mother or his father. All of the time, the ghost that followed Philip stayed within earshot, and any time that Theodosia attempted to go near Philip, the ghost would give her a wary look and lead Philip away. A dead person actively avoiding her wasn’t something she was used to, as most spirits couldn’t speak to each other, and therefore took whatever company they could find.

However, Theodosia soon discovered through her thorough stalking that the library was the perfect place to confront Philip. He often took two different books and sat at a table, where he pretended to work on an essay. In reality, he merely read one book and left the other out for the ghost, while transcribing nursery rhymes on a sheet of parchment (which she found out after retrieving the paper from the trash bin after they left). Every so often, though, Philip left the table to replace whatever book had not been enough to grasp his interest. The man stayed at the table, reading over the open book, presumably assured that Philip was safe as long as he was no more than a shout away.

So one day, Theodosia walked up to Philip while he was wandering among the shelves, and put her hand on his arm. “Hey,” she whispered as a greeting. “You’re Philip Hamilton.”

“Theodosia Burr,” the boy said in the same low tone. He looked apprehensive. “My dad doesn’t like yours.”

“I’m aware,” she replied, perhaps a little stiffly. It was a pet peeve of hers when someone assumed that she was a child so impressionable that she unquestionably imitated her father. She loved her father, but it was quite hard for a seven-year old to create her own reputation. “I want to speak to you about your magic.”

The boy’s eyebrows furrowed. “My magic?” Just before Theodosia could respond, his eyes dawned in realization. “Oh. You’re like Ma, Pa, and the tutors. You think I don’t have any.”

“It’s very improbable for you to not have any magic,” Theodosia said slowly, almost impressed at the adults’ ability to deny. “It’s much more probable for you to have alternate manifest.”

Philip’s eyes grew wider. “I haven’t told that to anybody but- _but_ you know, how did you..?”

“Gossip,” Theodosia waved off. Not a lie, but not the whole truth. “I want you to explain it to me. Your magic.”

Caution flashed across Philip’s face. “What do you already know?”

“All I know is that you have alternate manifest, and that it’s like the ambiguity of poetry.”

“That’s just what-” he stopped himself, shaking his head dully. “You mustn’t tell anyone else. I’ll have a much easier life if everyone believes me to be magically stagnant, instead of having alternate manifest.”

Theodosia nodded in solidarity.

Leaning close to Theodosia as to avoid any eavesdroppers, Philip whispered, “I can’t cast spells. I can say the regular incantations over and over, and it just won’t work.” It worked exactly the same way for Theodosia. Her mediumship replaced her spellcasting ability, something that frustrated her to no end. Spellcasting was supposed to be as natural as breathing, and made your life ten times easier. Theodosia had tried simple spells, complex spells, rituals, but had no more luck than anyone else had in seeing ghosts. “I come up with poems on the fly. So as long as they rhyme, and I put magic into them, they act as spells. But the results aren’t always what’s expected...

“Here,” Philip said, untying his cravat. “The more complex, the less predictable, but this is very simple.” He put his cravat around Theodosia’s neck, despite the fact that she did not have a collar on her dress. She raised an eyebrow, but did not object. “ _Tie this cloth around her neck, and make it so that it… does not look like a wreck._ ”

Miraculously, the cravat tied itself snugly around her, but not uncomfortably. Her only complaint was that the fabric was mildly itchy against her bare neck. The precision amazed Theodosia, who knew that magic like this could be dangerous, as the clothing could be restrictive and construct breathing if the spellcaster wasn’t proficient in the given spell. “And you have to make up the poems without any forethought?”

“Yes,” Philip answered, helping Theodosia to untie the cravat. “If it’s premeditated, it will not work. We’ve tried.”

Hm. ‘We.’ She reasoned the other party to be the ghost. Theodosia wondered how far she could push Philip, and how much she could learn about the ghost. Innocently, she asked, “we?”

At that, Philip paled as much as humanly possible. “I’ve got to go.” He grabbed his cravat and scurried away from the bookshelves. A few seconds later, Theodosia saw the man leading an anxious Philip away, his loose cravat held tightly in the boy’s left hand.

Apparently, the boy was much more secretive than Theodosia had thought. Either that, or the boy thought the man to be more important a secret than his alternately manifested powers- the latter of which was a secret that could ruin his life as he knew it.

Theodosia decided then and there that something very interesting was happening, and that she intended to be a part of it.

 

* * *

 

For a few weeks after that day in the library, Theodosia took care to be more subtle in her surveillance. This proved to be an excellent choice, as she soon picked up on the fact that, while the man spoke freely to Philip, the boy was meticulously careful to either speak in barely a whisper, or, to Theodosia’s surprise, some sort of sign language that might’ve seemed to be fidgeting to someone who knew no better.

She heard the man’s voice one day, while walking through the park with her father. Her eyes searched the landscape before she finally saw the man and Philip. Her eyebrows furrowed, and, while she kept pace, she failed to answer a question her father had asked. He stopped walking in order to follow her gaze, and Theodosia stopped too, surprised. For a moment, her father’s face fell in exasperated disappointment- her stalking had begun losing its childish endearance- until it dawned in realization, and he turned to Theodosia. “I think I may have been looking at this situation from the wrong side.”

With an apologetic smile, she said, “a ghost follows Philip around, a man. He won’t speak to me, so I’ve taken to keeping a close watch.”

“To make sure that the spirit isn’t malevolent?”

“Oh, no, he isn’t malevolent. He’s only secretive, and very protective.”

“Should we tell the Hamiltons?” Theodosia understood her father’s slight paling. Usually, ghosts wandered. Those were often the most coherent and kind. However, ghosts that remained in one place, or haunted a living person, they tended to be fixated on something from when they were alive. And fixation could be dangerous.

As quickly as she could, Theodosia shook her head. “The man isn’t even haunting Philip. He just follows him around, talks to him, but not haunting. And he isn’t _threatening_ towards me in the least, even if he can be standoffish. He’s protective towards Philip, and I think worried that I might cause the boy trouble.”

Her father found this funny, as Theodosia never did anything to get herself or others in trouble. After a while, though, he just sighed. “You understand all of this better than I do. I trust that you won’t get yourself hurt.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, pulling her father into a hug.

So she spent the rest of the day straining to hear the man’s voice, and watching Philip’s movements. Having a good understanding on many languages helped her decipher what was being said.

She quickly learned that when Philip bit his bottom lip, he meant something along the lines of ‘no,’ or ‘not.’ Biting his top lip meant ‘yes,’ but if he dragged his teeth on the bottom or lower, it meant that he didn’t know, but depending on the lip, it showed if he was leaning positively or negatively. Brushing the back of his thumb just above his eyebrows meant that he was asking for clarification or explanation. Scratching the back of his neck was if he was referring to himself, but bouncing his right knee twice referred to his mother, and his left his father. She even found out that she had her own gesture- tapping the left wrist to the right thigh three times.

After maybe three hours, she understood the basics. Well after those hours, she felt she knew enough. She stood up, and walked in a huge arc so that when she approached the bench that Philip and the man were sat on, she was facing their backs.

Leaving no room for them to run away as had happened last time, Theodosia sat calmly next to Philip. She had an apologetic expression, and was meticulous in making sure that she neither looked at or made to acknowledge the ghost. “I’m sorry about me prying in the library, it was rude of me to say anything.” Philip made to speak, but Theodosia continued, “I thought that I should tell you a secret of my own in return. As an apology.”

Rather conspicuously, Philip glanced over to the man, who said, “it can’t hurt, I don’t think.”

“Okay, then,” Philip directed to Theodosia. “What is it?”

Not wanting to come off as being to bold or forwards just yet, she simply said, “I have alternate manifest, as well. Don’t tell anyone,” she added quickly.

“I won’t,” he assured. “But, may I ask what it is? I mean, how it manifests?”

This is where she differed ever so slightly from her father. When her father was stressed with a new situation, he became more reclusive and quiet. Theodosia, on the other hand…

She switched her gaze from Philip to the man. The ghost jumped back in surprise, but Philip didn’t catch on. Before Philip had realized anything, she said, her voice clear as a bell, “I’m a medium.”

But that only seemed to confuse Philip even more. “A medium? Like a middle? I don’t know what that-”

“She can see me,” the man said, his voice ever so slightly threatening. He stood, and his eyes were unfalteringly locked with Theodosia’s, the latter of whom suddenly felt small, and ridiculous for her attempt at dramatics. “Let her keep the rest of her secrets.”

He led a slightly distressed Philip away from Theodosia, and she had a sudden epiphany, or, perhaps, several.

Firstly, Philip had no idea that the man following him around was dead, a spirit. Nor had he even known what a medium was. She wondered if this could be intentional misinformation, or merely a lack of sharing. Could the man be concerned that Philip was too young to understand? She didn’t have an answer to the questions that stemmed from the first realization, but she accepted that maybe _some_ things had to remain mysteries.

Secondly, the man was protective almost to a fault. He had the air about him of someone who believed themself to be humble, but still had tumorous pride in their heart. Still, this man did not seem evil, or even ill-intending. In fact, quite the opposite was true. His young appearance and soldier’s uniform suggested that he was the equivalent of a ghostly teenager- having been dead long enough in order to have thought they knew everything there was to discover, but not long enough to grow aware of what there was still to discover. The discrepancy was merely a fault of circumstance.

Thirdly, when he had said, ‘ _Let her keep the rest of her secrets_ ,’ it had been a subtle hint for Theodosia to keep her mouth shut about his existence as a spirit. She knew well enough to respect the wishes of the dead, and felt almost offended by the man’s vague wording, before she realized that, one, it was meant for Philip to gain no conclusion from, and two, her father was Aaron Burr, and therefore she really had no standing to be this upset by vagueness.

_“So, you couldn’t be a part of this grand scheme after all,”_ the evidence seemed to say. But she couldn’t accept that.

No, she very well could be a part of that grand scheme. She just had to worm her way into it, somehow become intertwined with the story. She had everything that she needed, Theodosia knew. The only thing waiting was opportunity. So, she returned to her studies for a while, knowing that what she needed would come to her soon.

 

* * *

  

It was one early evening when the Treasury Secretary burst into her and her father’s house, holding a bottle of hard liquor, that Theodosia found her way in.

“I know him,” she had said, “I know him. He’s the man who follows Philip around,” and she was dizzy with the fact that this story was with thanks to her.

 

* * *

 

When Alexander nor Eliza had not come home, even some time after sundown, John began to be ever so slightly worried. His stunt with the Tome was anything but subtle, and he was afraid that letting Alexander believe that he had moved on was going to cause an unneeded amount of stress in the family. His only self-justification was how _goddamn tired_ he was of being so close to Alexander, but unable to communicate except through his son, which wasn’t exactly a very tact communication channel. But he hadn’t been tact. He’d been rash, and probably just opened so many closed wounds, ripped open so many time-healed scars. Jesus, he was an _idiot._

Eventually, though, Philip got tired of playing Bows and Ribbons, especially when John was spacing out every three seconds. “I’m tired,” he mumbled, setting down a doll that had represented a French regiment at Yorktown. “Can you read me something, since Ma and Pa are gone?”

“I’ll do you one better,” John promised. “I’ll tell you a story. From my past-” he paused, laughing as Philip’s eyes seemed to light up like they’d been hexed by fire, with an equally bright smile cutting through his cheeks, “-as long as you clean up nicely, and I’ll walk you through how to put out the candles, and the house is nice and tidy like it usually is before bed. Otherwise, it’s the Tales of Charles the Troll.”

The Tales of Charles the Troll was a series of short stories about an ugly and vicious troll named Charles that involved adrenaline-inducing plots such as a quest to boil water with a pot that had holes in it, or being processed for a court-martial. Any similarities to the General of the same given name were _completely_ intentional, not that Philip knew that. All that Philip knew was that being threatened with the Tales of Charles the Troll was something he did _not_ want to ignore. “Alright,” he squeaked, scooping all of the dolls into his arms, teetering under the weight.

If it weren’t for the fact that John was physically unable to interact with anything except for whatever had been on his person when he died (thankfully, his best uniform. In death, it had none of the bloodstains he’d seen on his body, and was forever impeccably pressed), John would’ve helped Philip clean the house. But the boy made do cleaning and dusting every single room, with the exception of Eliza’s magic study, which John wouldn’t let Philip touch with a ten foot pole. John wasn’t quite sure what magic was actually being studied, but Alexander had once insinuated that Eliza’s specialty was fire magic.

Eventually, John sat down on the rocking chair (it didn’t rock for him) while Philip scampered onto his bed and pulled the blankets up to his chin, and asked eagerly, “what’s your story going to be about?”

He hadn’t thought that far ahead. He tilted his head back in thought, humming slightly. And, in his own time, he settled on one that he’d been thinking about during the afternoon.

“In the Before,” he stopped in order to smile to himself at Philip’s mysterious name for John’s past, “I was rash, bold, and uncaring about any harm I could endure. Once, a good friend asked me if I was _attempting_ to maim myself. I didn’t know how to respond, as the more I thought about the question, the more I realized that I sincerely had no care to any physical suffering I had to endure, and if not, I looked forwards to it. Maybe it was because I was fighting for something that I was too young to handle, maybe I was too young to have a safe handle of my emotions.”

“You still look young.”

“Oh, if you’re interrupting, I guess I can switch to the Tales of Charles the Troll.” Philip giggled, knowing that John wasn’t actually about to back out of his story now. John smiled back, before resettling in the immovable chair. “All that’s relevant is that I didn’t care what happened to my body. It could’ve bent and broken and been shot and bloodied, and I doubt I would’ve cared. So, when time came to salvage my hometown from the Bows, I was one of the Ribbons to take it back. But the siege failed, and I was taken prisoner. I was treated well enough, but I was confined to a space, a planet of my own, while everyone I cared about was still here on Earth. I was separated from of my friends, and I lived with my enemy.

“See, while I rode into danger with my sword drawn, I was unafraid of what might break my body, but I was so blissfully unaware of the loosening tenacity of my mind, my soul.”

While he looked loathe to interrupt John’s tale, Philip asked, “tenacity?”

“Strength, determination in persisting.” After exchanging a quick _thank you/it wasn’t a problem_ , John continued, “you see, I was more upset than anything about being separated from someone that I cared for more deeply than I knew how to. When we were together, we seemed unstoppable. It was terrible without them, and I earnestly awaited the first letter that they would send, selfishly hoping that they felt the same pining that I was. But when their first letter came, they announced to me that they were to be married. I hadn’t a clue how to respond, how to _think_. I studied that letter over and over, and it only made things worse for me. It was a vortex of self-deprecating beliefs and desires, yet somehow, they stayed by my side through it all.

“But the thing is, once I returned to my friends, _they_ were there, and while something had changed in them, our… _feelings_ towards each other were as strong as ever. I was confused, at first. It was to the point where I asked a good friend, you remember him, the one that asked if I’d intended to maim myself, well, he told me something, something that is a practical and fundamental truth. The sort of relationship that we had, he said, it could not be lessened. It could shift, or grow, but it would never diminish. ‘True love does not fade,’ were his exact words, ‘no matter the circumstances.’

“I was scared and terrified that they would somehow be foreign, after the time I was apart from them, even though I’d been apart from them much longer on other occasions. I was in a very bad situation, and I made it worse for myself until my friends could knock some sense into me.”

Philip, who was now blinking sleepily as he kept his eyes on John, and observed, “were you two Bonded?”

“Yes,” John said quietly. “We were.”

The boy hummed with contentment, and nuzzled his head into his pillow, obviously ready for sleep. His eyes closed, and John slumped back in his chair, ever so slightly relieved to not have to speak any more of what was, while morally educational, one of the most difficult times of John’s life. He let more happy memories flood his thoughts, a never-ending loop of bad puns and victories and bodies pressed close and laughter that was so loud for so long that the joke behind it was long forgotten.

It was the closest thing that came to sleep, but he was ‘woken’ by the creak of Philip’s door creaking open. Eliza’s face peeked in, her eyes falling on Philip’s snoring form. Her gaze shifted from suspiciously neutral to a sort of morose curiosity. Holding the latter expression, her eyes swept across the room, but she seemed to have found nothing. It was only when she whispered, “thank you, Laurens,” that John realized that he hadn’t been bold enough to cause hurt, he’d been bold enough to give himself away-!

As the door clicked shut, John stewed as a silent chill rose through his spine as slow as a candle burned. Fear, regret, guilt, anger, such a contrast to those memories he had been playing in his mind.

 

* * *

 

He was so absorbed in his own emotions that he didn’t hear the footsteps on the other side of the door, stopping unsurely at the closed threshold. The man’s hand rose, as if to knock on the door, as if he expected a ‘ _come in,’_ as if the person he would be knocking for could tell him to come in.

Hamilton let his shaking hand fall. Instead, he rested his forehead against the door’s wood, feeling dizzy and unsteady. With his eyes closed, he softly groped for the door handle, but did nothing for what seemed to be an eternity. Standing there, head on wood and hand on metal, he found his predicament irrevocably, hilariously _sad._ As in pitiful and as in the emotion both. Somehow, though, he found himself able to push down and in on the handle.

_Look over Philip,_ he’d said to his Laurens. And he had done. Is doing, actually. Philip’s body was subtly oriented so that he must’ve been facing the rocking chair when he fell asleep. Hamilton took a long look at the chair, imagining his Laurens sitting there with languidly-stretched limbs. Perhaps he was wearing his signature doe-eyed look of shock, with lips parted slightly and eyebrows drawn up in a way that made him look genuinely concerned. It was something that Hamilton never had; instead, he’d always looked to unexpected noises, news, or praise with his eyebrows scrunched up so that it appeared that he had just been slapped, and was about to return the favor. Indignance came perhaps too easily to him.

Stifling a soft, morose laugh, Hamilton closed the door behind him, pressing his back to the wall. He stared at the ceiling. Eventually, he whispered, “Eliza and I just got back from Burr’s. After reading, I thought that I’d sent you away. I was angry that I hadn’t seen that passage in my Tome, _desolate_ that I’d lost you for good. I got Burr drunk, if you could believe that’s possible. His daughter, Theodosia, is a medium. She, uh, she told us that you’ve been looking over Philip.” His voice broke when he continued, “like I asked.

“When we talked, in that hallway, I had no idea that it would be the last time that we would talk to each other. I promise I would've been more theatric if I had known,” he joked, or, at the very least, tried to. “Though, to be fair, you were excellent with the theatrics yourself. Kissing me in the middle of the hallway- it was so bold, I forgot that we had ever tried to be careful.” Hamilton sat down now, against the wall, and folded and unfolded his hands. “That’s poetic enough, right? You always used to say that you hated poetry, but you did always read mine, if only so that you could tease me about it.”

For a moment, Hamilton let his mind wander back to the war. His Laurens constantly rifled through Hamilton’s belongings, searching for the bundle of parchment tied with the white ribbon that marked Hamilton’s poetry collection. Then, his Laurens would copy down the words and recite them loudly to the rest of the aides. He always had a mischievous glint in his eyes as he antagonized Hamilton and tried to get him to feel some sort of embarrassment.

Every time, though, it ended with Hamilton preening due to the attention and then privately informing his Laurens that one or two of the poems were dedicated to him, so that his Laurens was the one blushing furiously at the end.

“Not once did you think that any of those might be for you.” It was true, something that the then-shameless Hamilton never understood.

He tilted his head to the side, and muttered, “and that game, the one that Philip calls Bows and Ribbons. You play that with him, right? I’d always thought that some of the scenes looked like I'd seen them before. I think I caught you two playing Brandywine a few days back. But if you think you’re going to make him into a military man, well, I’m sorry, because I’m afraid I’ve spoiled him a bit much.” He chuckled softly, but, “then again, you would know that, of course.

“When I said for you to look over Philip that day, I never thought that you would actually go through with it so thoroughly, though, I suppose, I shouldn’t be shocked at your very _honorable_ intentions to fulfil a promise to its fullest extent.” The last part was an old inside joke that not even Lafayette ever got to be involved with. It felt strange yet calming to use it again.

“I expected for Eliza and I to have a nice quick chat on how the Shattering was actually some specialized Old French curse that the Mac n’ Cheese Demon brought to America, not that Jefferson had outright antagonized me yet, and then I would introduce the two of you to each other. Eliza, you, and I would make up some dream team. Eliza always loved domestic things, she’d take care of the kids and the house. You and her wouldn’t have anything more than a familial bond, since I know that you don't like women that way, but you would still get along swell. You’d help her with cooking, or at least brewing the tea- I _know_ that you always found it cathartic, and you can’t protest to that, can you, so _ha._ I’d help Eliza with the kids, and you could help to teach them French. Maybe you’re doing that with Philip already, I don’t know.

“But the two of us? We’d be the most accomplished duo in politics, even moreso than Jefferson and Madison. I mean, Jefferson, that little shit- Lafayette _hinted_ that he might be a- well, I’m not _saying_ that Jefferson is a incubus, but has anyone ever actually seen contradictory evidence? But, I digress, instead of having to run the law firm all on my own, we would’ve won landmark, precedent-setting case after precedent-setting case together until Washington invites me to be Secretary of the Treasury, and you would be Secretary of State. We write, and argue, and your charming Southern demeanor gets you elected president, and we get so much stuff done, and we’ll define our nation for years to come… And even if I wouldn’t get elected, that would be alright. Because so as long as it’s you, I don't think I’d mind being in the shadow of someone else’s legacy, so as long as it was you…”

Hamilton was aware of the wistful expression on his face as he stared at the floor. He was afraid that his words, instead of being comforting, would only prove to cause his Laurens pain. But these words needed to be shared between them, and, well, his Laurens had once called Hamilton’s loquaciousness endearing, so he had no reason to suddenly become sheepish.

“Once upon a time, I offered you the world. I meant it. I swear, I’m going to rise up even more than I already have, and I’ll do it in your name.”

Sucking in a long breath, Hamilton leant his head back so that it hit the wall once again, with his legs criss-crossed. He stared up at the ceiling, as if to close his speech.

Seemingly without provocation, Philip stirred from sleep, and then sat bolt upright in bed. He looked over at the rocking chair at first, eyes full of concern, and began to say something, before he caught his father’s eye. “Oh, hey Pa, is something the matter? Er, surely you weren’t sleeping on the floor?”

“I just wanted to apologize for being late,” Hamilton lied smoothly. Philip didn’t respond for a bit, but instead sat cross legged and began fidgeting, bouncing his left leg a little. “I saw that you got to sleep fine, though.”

At this, Philip nodded. “Yeah. And I don’t know if you noticed, but I cleaned up everywhere. Well, except for Ma’s magic study.”

Stifling an incredulous laugh, Hamilton asked, “you know that you have no reason to be afraid of the magic study, right? The most dangerous items your mother has in there are books with curses in them.” _And you can’t use spells,_ Hamilton didn’t add.

“Oh,” Philip said, furrowing his eyebrows and drawing the knuckle of his thumb across them so as if to itch his forehead. “I had always just… er, assumed that I wasn’t allowed in.”

“Alright, well,” Hamilton stood up with some difficulty, still disoriented from the day’s events, and kissed Philip’s forehead before continuing, “I want you to get back to sleep, alright?”

He helped Philip lay back down and then pulled the blankets over his son’s chest. They said their goodnights, and Hamilton walked out of the room quickly.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Philip’s voice floated through the walls, even though it was barely a whisper. It confirmed Hamilton’s fleeting theory on why Philip had woken up so seemingly spontaneously. Philip’s voice had asked, “why were you crying?”


	2. (not) that final meeting in the twilight kingdom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, the story was supposed to end in the middle of this chapter but I couldn't stop writing. I just love the Angst Trio too much.

Almost immediately after That Day, Laurens and Philip entered into some strange friendship with Theodosia, much to the girl’s smug pleasure. Mainly, she just felt a rush of victory at having succeded in becoming part of the story. At least, that was how she had felt at first, but just as Laurens was dragged kicking and screaming into talking with Theodosia, she was dragged kicking and screaming into actual _friendships_. Not just talking with a spirit once and a while, not just talking with her father. It was a new experience, having people she set aside books for or people who she felt she could let her guard down while around.

Despite that, everyone seemed to be keeping Philip in the dark about the fact that the invisible man following him around was a ghost, and the lover of his father, at that. Theodosia joined Philip in calling Laurens ‘He’ or ‘Him’ whenever the three of them spoke. She’d even become proficient in the sign language they used, and was quite embarrassed to find herself insulting her tutor through it whenever faced with condescendence or incompetence.

Typically, Phillip, Theodosia, and Laurens would meet up at the Burr household, where Theodosia’s father knew about Laurens and did not make any inquiries as to the missing third of the conversation. Every once and a while, however, Theodosia found herself at the Hamilton’s. At first, Secretary Hamilton was averse to having the daughter of his self-proclaimed arch-nemesis in the house, ‘ _possibly spying.’_ But that was before Mrs Hamilton whacked him on the back of the head, told him to stop being so obtuse, and pointed out what a lovely and helpful girl Theodosia was. Starting from then, the Hamiltons eventually warmed up to Theodosia so that, years later, she forgot she only had one family.

Mrs Hamilton seemed to have taken a liking to Theodosia from their first meeting. On those rare occasions where she found herself unexpectedly staying for dinner at the Hamilton’s for one reason or another, Mrs Hamilton acted as if Theodosia had always been there, and had a plate laid out for her when the time came, without fail.

Perhaps the largest sense of solidarity came from the fact that Theodosia and Philip both had alternate manifest. The only people to know of Theodosia’s alternate manifest were her father, the Hamiltons, and Laurens. According to the unspoken rule to keep Philip in the dark, Theodosia practically kept silent about her alternate manifest, and, when pushed to better explain, claimed that hers merely made her more observant.

Philip, however, had only two keepers, still. Despite this, it seemed like his abilities were discussed and used more than Theodosia’s ever were. Over half of the time that Philip, Theodosia, and Laurens were together, it was spent drilling the young boy on rhyming pairs, syllable structures, and poem types.

“Would acrostic poems work? We know that the alternate manifest accepts poems based on syllable structure, even if they don’t rhyme,” Theodosia was proposing to Philip and Laurens one chilly Winter afternoon, pacing as she spoke. Laurens sat cross-legged on the floor and Philip leaned against a wall, both listening intently. “So let’s say that as long as it is a type of poem, and you intend it to be that type of poem, the alternate manifest considers it to be a poem.”

In all the time that Philip and Laurens had spent together before Theodosia came into the equation, they’d never taken to experimenting with Philip’s powers in any depth. But with Theodosia came a desire to learn, and so for the past six years, the three of them spent a large portion of their time training Philip, and using his powers had long since become second nature to him. In the third year of their friendship, they’d even put in place a rule that any hypothesis, no matter how stupid, must be put forward and subsequently tested if at all possible.

Coincidentally, Theodosia had already cited this rule twice in her proposal.

Laurens shook his head. “Your idea is sound, but not the reasoning. Remember, we found out that the poems don’t need to rhyme when we were working on lanternes, and I pointed out that silver and river don’t really rhyme, but that the spell still worked.”

“Well, they _sound similar,_ okay?” Philip huffed, but went on, “you _really_ can’t blame me! I was ten, and they _sound similar!_ ”

Somewhere else in the house, a door opened. Mrs Hamilton, probably, home from the market. Quickly, Theodosia whispered, “switch,” signaling for herself and Philip to begin using the sign language.

Philip, who was still fairly upset about the mention of his attempt to rhyme silver and river, sharply gestured to Laurens, “ _You’re lucky everything passes through you, because otherwise I would throw something at you._ ” When Theodosia finished containing her laughter, she looked up to see Philip, with a blank expression on his face, repeatedly signing to himself something that went along the lines of, “ _through you, at you, through you, at you…”_

For some reason, Laurens looked at Theodosia for an explanation. “ _I think Philip broke,”_ Theodosia offered.

“ _I didn’t break!”_ Philip was practically bouncing with excitement. _“Look, if I end my sentences- while signing- with similar signs but not quite the same ones, does that count as rhyming?”_

Casually as can be, Laurens asked, “are the signs for silver and river any similar?”

In a large, exaggerated movement, Philip drew his fist across his collarbone, a sign for a word which Theodosia was _not_ about to repeat. He proceeded to chuck an empty candle holder at Laurens, but, as expected, it sailed right through the now-smugly grinning man. “ _I WAS TEN YEARS OLD, AND THEY SOUNDED SIMILAR!”_

“Is everything alright up there?” It wasn’t Mrs Hamilton’s voice, but Secretary Hamilton’s.

“We’re studying,” Theodosia lied smoothly, letting her words carry downstairs without yelling. “Philip got frustrated over one of the worksheets and knocked over a candlestick.”

“Oh, alright,” Secretary Hamilton replied as Philip once again moved his fist shoulder-to-shoulder, this time facing Theodosia.

Waving a hand dismissively, Theodosia turned to Philip. “ _That’s a good idea, despite what He says, though we would have to find out what constitutes as a signed rhyme, according to your magic, not to mention that we don’t even know if your magic does allows it. Once we understand the hypothesized rhyming, we can expand from there.”_

_“Could we use some of the older signs?”_

“I don’t see why not,” Laurens said, looking quite lost in thought. Then, his head snapped up. “Have we tested the alternate manifest-vs-wards idea we have?”

Shaking his head, Philip sat down on his bed. “ _We never had a proper subject, since Theodosia’s exempt from our wards, and vice versa. But if you have an idea, I know that I’m open to it.”_

Theodosia welcomed a feeling of mischievousness that returned every so often. For one person in particular, actually. _“I have an idea, trust me,”_ she signed with haste, before dashing out of the room. She made sure her footsteps were light enough not to be heard. She stopped at the stairs, brushed off invisible dust from her skirts, and descended the stairs with a practiced grace, smiling when Secretary Hamilton looked up from the treatise he was writing. “Hello,” she said, loud enough for Philip and Laurens to hear if they were listening, “Philip and I were having trouble with that worksheet, current events, if you could believe it,” she joked. It was hard to get mixed up on current events assignments if your quasi-father’s name popped up every two sentences. Secretary Hamilton chuckled slightly, but Theodosia went on, “it was dealing with a bill going through the House of Representatives-”

“Oh _god-_ if it’s the one that Madison co-wrote-”

“Unfortunately so,” Theodosia said sympathetically. On the inside, however, she was grinning broadly. The conversation had gone _exactly_ where she had intended it to.

She saw the stored exasperation boil in Secretary Hamilton’s expression. He snapped his book shut with a clapping noise that seemed to reverberate through the entire house. “Fucking Jeffershit won’t shut up about his precious Maddy-Waddy’s genius fucking bill.” Theodosia had to bite her lip to keep herself from bursting into laughter, especially when Laurens began cackling from the top of the stairs. “Their little fucking cambion. If I have to listen to his self-righteous southern accent interrupt _one more cabinet meeting_ , I swear that I’ll punch him.”

“You know what?” Theodosia leaned against the stairway railing, speaking absentmindedly to the air, “I’d wager that, you’d still find Secretary Jefferson just as annoying if, say, he somehow lost his accent.”

Eyes incredulous, Secretary Hamilton looked over Theodosia’s face to try and gauge her intent. She had earned herself a reputation for causing a bit of trouble when it came to Jefferson, ever since she had leaked the infamous Jefferson-Eats-Fish statement from her father. “You wouldn’t,” he sounded out slowly, but he seemed to not believe his own words.

Theodosia, very pointedly, took an interest in her nails. “Another question for the worksheets: could you help us find a definition of ‘plausible deniability?’”

The man smirked. “I don’t think you need any help in that department.”

In response, Theodosia sent the same smirk back, and ascended the stairs, brimming in pride. Her two friends were sitting at the top of the stairs. Philip looked like he was trying not to faint from a lack of oxygen; he was curled in a fetal position on the floor, shaking with silent laughter. When he managed to compose himself enough to sign, it was to spell out _‘Maddy-Waddy,’_ which made Laurens lose composure once more, so that he was practically howling with laughter.

 _“Well?”_ Theodosia kicked lightly at Philip’s shin, and went on, “ _we need to practice._ ”

 _“Alright, alright,”_  Philip signed lightly, slapping away Theodosia’s incoming kick. And Theodosia couldn’t bring herself to kick again, no matter how half-heartedly, because the smile on her face seemed much too large for her to do anything but bask in her own happiness.

 

* * *

 

While Theodosia and Philip were both sixteen, Philip began taking an interest in Theodosia’s alternate manifest. At first, she was able to deflect the question off with a joke. She’d open the hand fan her father had bought her and hide her face with it, and then, in an especially haughty voice, ask, “is it polite to ask a lady about her alternate manifest?” And then she, Laurens, and he would all laugh, but the laughs would be shorter each time, and Theodosia knew that she couldn’t keep the façade.

Philip, Theodosia, and Laurens were having an early morning at the library. Philip was roaming the back shelves, apparently trying to find a book on ancient potions, Laurens was fiddling with the hem of his coat, and Theodosia was copying passages from one of her favorite novels, sitting next to Laurens at a table.

At least, until Philip returned from the maze of dusty shelves and pushed an open book towards Theodosia and Laurens. She took in a big gulp, as Philip, normally boyishly boisterous and confident, was clutching his arms and refused to make eye contact. Her fears were confirmed when she read a few sentences, and found the word _‘medium’_ mentioned several times.

 _“When we were eight,”_ Philip began signing, _“you walked up to me and you said that you were sorry for prying, and that to make it up to me, you told me that you’re a medium. And then you-”_ Philip nodded his head towards Laurens as he sat down, _“led me away. You were upset, and I remember thinking, ‘He’s trying to protect me from something,’ and you did, you always have been, from something or the other, but… I- You’re a ghost. And Theodosia, you knew about Him.”_

It took all of Theodosia’s strength to not avert her gaze from the conversation, but she managed to look pleadingly at Laurens, as, while the keep-Philip-out-of-the-loop movement had been unanimously and silently decreed and acted upon, it was Laurens who created the ideology. The ghost seemed to understand this as well, and he laid his hands out on the table, before sighing loudly. “I’ve been with you since you were an infant. You had always just assumed I was just another person that other people just couldn’t see, for some reason.

“I always planned on telling you, but eight years ago, your parents got home late, and I had to put you to bed myself. And then I told you a story, from when I was alive. That day, your mother and father went over to the Burrs’ and Theodosia told them about me. And then Theodosia befriended us, and there was this silent agreement, and I know that this isn’t an excuse and that I should’ve told you.

“And here’s the truth: my name is Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens.” Dawning realization lit up on Philip’s face, not to Theodosia’s shock. Philip’s father mentioned Laurens just often enough for it to be a household name, recognized in many of Secretary Hamilton’s coveted war stories. But it also carried a sense of mystery, since he refused to go into any more detail than necessary during his storytelling. “I died while fighting a hydra, I was in the military with your father, and-”

When Laurens faltered, Philip picked up for him, forgetting to sign. “You Bonded with him.”

Very faintly, so that it was more of a breath than a whisper, Laurens asked, “how could I not have?”

 

* * *

 

Theodosia and her father were out of town helping a kind but morose woman who’d dressed up as a man to fight (and then die) in the revolution find her living family, who resided on a farm a few days’ ride out from the city, when the Reynolds Pamphlet was released. She held the paper in her hand as she felt the blood run from her face, she walked backwards until she stumbled into a wall, and called her father from where he was examining a produce stand a bit down the street.

When he saw the pamphlet, her father raised his eyebrows slightly, and, if anything, he looked impressed. “I never thought that he would actually do it,” he murmured, but he simply handed it back to Theodosia disinterestedly.

“That’s it?”

Her father glanced up, a little bemused. “What else would there be to say?”

There was not a single instance in Theodosia’s memory where she had been confused, exasperated, enraged, or otherwise disapproving of her father’s chronic despondence. More often than not, she tried to mimic that trait of her father.

But it was different now. This was her best friend’s father, her best friend’s family. She couldn’t imagine how she could ever stay impartial, even casual, when it came to something such as- well, something so _unprecedented-_ not when it involved the people she considered family _._ A white rage blinded her senses, and she found herself shoving her father away from her, so that even she stumbled backwards with the force. Her father looked at her in disbelief, not even anger or disappointment. Somehow, Theodosia would’ve preferred one of the latter.

“And what about Philip? He’s my best friend, practically my brother! And what of how he and the rest of his family are doing?” People, ghost and living, came to gawk at the sudden outburst from the girl they had thought to be mild-mannered. Theodosia found that she didn’t care. “But I don’t think you ever took a moment to consider anything that doesn’t directly affect you, and that’s no way to live. For _once in your life,_ allow yourself to think about and-or feel _anything_ without first calculating its effects! Choose _either-or,_ actually, you’ve set the bar so low that I would be positively _thrilled_ if it turned out that you could manage just half of one.”

With that, Theodosia set her shoulders and stomped away from the whispering crowd. Let them have their gossip, she thought angrily, but then paused in her step. Was that how Hamilton felt about publishing that horrid pamphlet? No, she decided. Confidence in one’s openness did not equal Greek hubris.

God, she needed to see how Philip was holding up. How Laurens was reacting. And was Mrs Hamilton alright? Concern for her second family flooded over her, and she immediately set course to the Hamilton’s.

After storming down a few blocks, Theodosia realized she’d been on this street just a few minutes before. She stopped in the middle of the street, confused. She knew the way to the Hamilton’s like she knew the opening lines to her favorite play. That is, the information was memorized so close to heart that she probably recited it in her sleep. The only thing that would have been able to keep Theodosia away was if the Hamiltons had changed their wards to make their house Unseekable, and had forgotten to include Theodosia.

In order to confirm her assumption, Theodosia gained the attention of the ghost that had noose marks around his neck. “Pardon me, sir, but do you have any idea if the Hamiltons upgraded their wards, recently?”

The ghost scoffed. “Well, I should hope so, with that pamphlet, but yes. Done with blood magic, very strong, but very distasteful. Blood magic is just _terrible_ to sense, you know. Unseekable to anyone that is not of blood relation or who disapproves of the pamphlet. It feels like desperation and resignation. It stings to be on that street, now. Such a shame. I used to walk down there, just to feel the poetry…” He shook his head. “I don’t think the boy has come out since the wards were put up.”

“Thank you,” Theodosia muttered, miffed not just at her father, but at the entire situation she was in. She especially hated how she had been practically ripped apart from her two best friends, her _only_ two friends. What had she done before this? Did she really speak to wayward spirits so often? Or did she dedicate most of her time to reading and to her studies? She had vague memories of enjoying her studies more than anything else, until she found her new favorite pastime- experimenting with her friends. Of course, it wasn’t as if one was objectively favorable over the other. But she would give up her powers if she wasn’t craving for her friends right now.

For a long while, she wandered the streets, chatting with the occasional passerby, dead or living. There was a sweet old living woman that she did some errands for, and in return was given a scarf that she attempted to deny. She shooed off some bullies who were looking for younger children to pick on. A bit later in the day, she managed to break up a fight between two college kids by threatening to strangle each of them with her new scarf. When the sky began dying itself red, as her scarf nearly had, she retired to the library and read a book about unconscious expressions of magic. She read for a few hours, before wondering if alternate manifests had the same experiences as others, when it came to these unconscious types of magics. As soon as the thought came into her mind, she found that she was unable to focus on anything but that quandary.

She walked home under moonlight and the faint glow of the stars, and held herself in a way that caused passerby to unconsciously move away from her, giving her a berth in the still-busy nighttime crowd. Her chin tilted upwards, she glared straight forwards like she was facing an old enemy, but in reality she was thinking about her friends. She’d gone almost weeks without seeing the two while on trips with her father, months, even. But for some reason, this separation was completely and utterly different. It was a separate sensation from anything else she felt before, almost like she couldn’t see a specific color anymore. She couldn’t tell, but, for some reason, she thought that color was blue.

When she pushed her door open, she noted that her father wasn’t writing in his diary by candlelight as he usually did at this hour. Curiosity piqued, she moved quietly through the house. Eventually, she found him sleeping facedown on his made bed, and a few bottles of alcohol in the study. There were too many bottles for her father’s weak constitution to still be intact. Internally, she composed a list:

_People Who Have Gotten My Father Drunk_

  * _The Continental Congress (As a Collective Concept)_


  * _Hamilton_


  * _Me_



It wasn’t exactly comforting to be included on the same list as Hamilton in the present, but she forced herself to swat the list from her mind, and instead began her nightly routine. She felt no regret for what she’d said to her father. She swept the floors, which had a week’s worth of dust, and similarly dusted and polished trinkets that lined shelves and desks.

There was some solace to be found in resuming the regular pacing of the long-neglected household chores, but not much. Luckily, though, she mustered enough patience to finish. When everything was clean to her standards, she sat on the sofa with her book, legs tucked beneath her. But that didn’t last for long. The words on the page danced in her head until they turned into hand signals.

Frustrated, she threw the book across the room and charged out of the room, and grabbed the cane that had the spike on the end to deter any street burglars.

She decided to stay at the park for the night, knowing that she was too restless to sleep anyways. Luckily, she had no use for her spiked cane, except for threatening a nighttime street peddler or two. She walked into the park and cut across the green to her usual bench, practically collapsing onto the seat. She stretched out her legs and laid horizontally on the bench like it was her bed, staring up at the sky to watch the stars shift.

She wasn’t sure how long she stayed there, but eventually, voices that Theodosia knew well drifted over Aquila and Cygnus.

“...my opinion is that this is idiotic, and you need to back out.”

“Were you not there when I tried to? I _tried_ to apologize to him, it didn’t work! I can’t just not show up, it’s a matter of honor-”

“Newsflash: the type of honor that you’re talking about is just another word for hubris but with one less letter.”

“Oh, that’s rich, coming from you.”

“I might be unable to affect the velocity of anything, but that doesn’t mean I can’t develop and change as a person.”

“He refused to apologize, he verbally attacked my father, I _can’t forfeit-”_

“Moderation-”

“ _I KNOW,”_ the voice that was obviously Philip’s shouted, something deep snapping in him. Theodosia felt her breath hitch, but there was something holding her back, something stopping her from doing the rational thing and running up to her friend to comfort him.

“I’m scared,” he whispered, “but I need to do this, _I need to do this_ and you can’t stop me.”

Laurens was silent.

Philip, sounding as if he was choking back a sob, said, “you can’t tell me about how I ought to behave around others, how I ought to interact with people when my own and my father’s honor is on the line. When was the last time you had to honestly defend your honor, with just me and Theodosia to talk to?”

When Laurens spoke, his voice was dangerously low. “I’m going to ignore your insinuation that I have no honor left-“

“I’m insinuating,” and Theodosia felt a hint of her friend’s father in the tone, “that you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be pressured to be honored. You _died_ , and you did it for your country. Your honor will never be in question again.”

“You’re trying to make an argument where there is none-”

“Am I? Or are you trying to coddle me?”

“Yes!” Laurens’ voice sounded half-hysterical, as voices did when one was forced to explain something simple several times. “I am trying to coddle you! I’m trying to keep you _safe._ And you’ve never said anything about it before. Face it, you’re shocked, hurt, and, as you said, scared.”

There was a hostile silence, in which Phillip’s frustration became tangible in the air. If Theodosia knew Philip well enough, and she did, he was probably shaking in anger since Laurens was making a point which Philip could not logically refute.

But Philip was prideful and stubborn. He scoffed, saying, “just because I’m feeling a few emotions doesn’t mean i’ve become suddenly tenuous!”

“It isn’t ‘just a few emotions-’”

“I need to do this-”

“You need time-”

“You don’t know what I need-”

And it went on, until the two desperate, disparate voices blended together in Theodosia’s mind, hissing out soft syllables and trying, vying for the other to understand. But their whispers became more frantic, and Theodosia felt now more than ever the wish that she could cast spells. She remembered a spell the ghost of a spy had told her about, that let you eavesdrop on somebody’s conversation as if you were standing a foot away from them, as long as you maintained a visual. She could recite the spell’s incantation right now, but it would come to no use. The only way to actually hear them, taking into account her alternate manifest…

Silently as she could, Theodosia rose from the bench, and turned to her right, where her two friends were arguing. Not bothering for any more inconspicuousness, she marched straight for Philip and, not responding to any of the two’s surprised remarks, wrapped her arms around Philip in a deft hug, and the gesture was returned. She held out one hand for Laurens, and he high-fived her lightly. There was a pleading look on his face that begged for Theodosia to take over with convincing Philip to not do what he was planning to do.

“Philip,” she whispered, refusing to let go, “I was out of town, I came as soon as I heard, but I couldn’t find your house, a ghost told me about the blood wards, and I haven’t been able to sleep, I’ve been sick with worry.”

“The blood wards,” Laurens said disdainfully. “Couldn't have Eliza used some other sort of magic? The way that blood magic feels reminds me of my time in the war.”

Theodosia, who remembered the phrase _‘desperation and resignation’_ being used to describe blood wards, did not comment on Laurens’ words. Instead, she waited for Philip to speak. After a few seconds, he let his head fall onto Theodosia’s shoulder. “The wards allow in people who aren’t upset about the pamphlet,” he said.

Eyebrows furrowed, Theodosia pulled out of the hug, holding Philip’s shoulders at arms’ length and examining him under thorough eyes. “Don’t tell me you think the pamphlet was the best course of action.”

“I don't think it was the best course of action,” Philip muttered defensively, “but my father did. I’m going to support him.” His eyes were slightly diverted, looking at the sway of trees behind Theodosia’s shoulders.

Shaking her head, Theodosia’s eyebrows shifted in concern. “Your father’s brilliant, we all know that, but he is capable of making mistakes. Really, really stupid mistakes. You don’t have to worship every pebble he walks on.”

“I don’t worship the pebbles he walks on.”

“He gave you a rock he tripped on for Christmas eight years ago, and you still have it.”

“He painted it my favorite color first!”

Seeing that she wasn’t going to change her friend’s mind about his father, Theodosia made the decision to switch tactics. “Alright, fine,” she said soothingly, and led Philip to sit on the bench. Laurens followed, and sat cross-legged on the ground before the two, eyeing the conversation with a careful trepidation. “I won’t try and stop you from… having your own opinions about your father. And I’ll admit, I have been eavesdropping, which has given me the knowledge that you plan on taking part in a _duel.”_

Huffing in what seemed to be annoyance, Philip made to sit up, but Theodosia pushed him back down. “Not you too,” he groaned, looking particularly miserable. “You’re going to tell me that I can’t.”

Tilting her head to the side, Theodosia frowned. Not out of spite or disapproval, but out of utter befuddlement. “You literally can’t,” Theodosia said slowly, “duels, in case you forgot, require you to cast a spell.”

It was true, despite Theodosia being fully prepared to lie in order to keep Philip out of danger. Dueling required a spell, a long one, about five lines, when all spells below expert-level were two at most. And, with Philip having alternate manifest, he wasn’t able to cast the dueling spell. This fact somehow was lost to Philip, and he just jutted out his chin and pushed his hair back. “I know.”

“ _You have alternate manifest!”_ Theodosia shrieked lightly, her exasperation getting the better of her. “You are physically unable to cast the firing spell, and even though you’re still a bit short, you aren’t exactly a small target!”

Shaking his head, Philip pointed out, “but I can still cast spells. Just not predetermined ones. All i need to do is follow the poem’s patterns, syllable count- ten syllables a line- and rhyme pattern- ABACC.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Theodosia said. She was grateful for her extensive studies when she remembered that, “duels are technically rituals. Or, summonings, setting up wards, or larger spells.”

“I know what a ritual is.”

“Just making sure, because it’s very important that the spells in a ritual are pronounced _just_ the right way, because the slightest intonation on the wrong vowel can be disastrous. Imagine what an entire _substituted spell_ could do!”

Biting his lip, Philip countered with, “well what about that time that we had to get rid of those pixies, right after your thirteenth birthday, before your father got home? The book said that you had to use a specific spell in order to make them leave a household, and that you had to pronounce the spell just right, just like in a ritual. But then we all got into an argument after Laurens suggested to set the pixies on fire and be done with it-”

“-I still think that would’ve been a simpler option-”

“-and then your father was due to come home any minute, so in an act of desperation, I did my whole alternate manifest thing, and suddenly all of the pixies were walking out of the door single-file.”

Admittedly, it took Theodosia a few seconds to gather the counter argument in her mind. “By your logic,” she began, “your alternate manifest is simply removing your abilities to cast the spells by their _incantations,_ and giving you the ability to come up with new incantations. But we’ve proved that _‘alternate manifest’_ refers to the _magic_ itself. When we experimented with Jefferson’s wards, and got past them, it was because the wards were against other people’s magic, specifically. We’ve got completely different magics than other people! It’s the same reason that different magical creatures require different wards, it’s because they all have different magics! Saying that your alternate manifest is compatible with other people’s magic is like peeling open an orange, expecting to see an apple!”

“So, we’re both pixies now,” Philip deadpanned.

Theodosia rolled her eyes. “Obviously not.”

But that was all Philip had to counter Theodosia’s argument, apparently, as he stood up and skirted around the bench before Theodosia could move to press him down again. “Theodosia, Laurens, I know you two _think_ you’re trying to help me, but I’m doing this, no matter what the two of you say.” He made to walk away, but when he noticed Laurens was still sitting down, he paused. “Come on, Laurens, Auntgelica probably heard me sneak out and is sitting in the entrance hall, waiting to scold me. I’m ready to get it over with, and I’ve been planning on telling her about you, so maybe that can shock her out of grounding me…” He trailed off just as Laurens reached his side. He readjusted his gaze so that it fixed on Theodosia. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Laurens nodded. “Until then.”

Without even a thought, Theodosia waved a hand goodbye, but she couldn’t help but thinking that Philip’s adieu was said with the confidence and finality that there could only be when one was speaking with a medium.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Theodosia sat up in bed with the speed of a bullet, her breaths coming in and out at what seemed to be twice that speed.

Her hand flew to her cheek and hot tears were resting there and she was crying but it wasn’t from a dream, something was _wrong._ Had she been cursed?

 _No, the wards,_ she tried to reassure herself, but all she could think of was Thomas Jefferson speaking with a flat accent. _Alternate manifests are rare, alternate manifests-_

 _Philip_.

As Theodosia hastily kicked off the sheets, memories of the day Mr Hamilton showed up with a few flasks of hard liquor flashed through her mind. Mrs Hamilton quietly quizzing Theodosia on Bond magic. She choked on a sob when she remembered that two people didn’t need to be in a romantic relationship to be Bonded, and that oh God, she was Bonded to Philip, she was certain of that, but something, something else, was _wrong-_

And then a chilling realization struck Theodosia as fast and hard as her breaths were coming. This feeling, this panic, her tears and the way the blood was rushing in her ears so that she could hear nothing else; it was a Shattering.

Oh God, Philip was _dead._

As her stomach dropped and her body suddenly went cold, some rational voice in her mind whispered against the frantic ones that she was a medium, and therefore it might not be quite the loss it would be to someone else. But it was drowned out in a sea of panic, and Theodosia lost grip of the thought.

She knew instantly when it was over. Her body went numb, and she suddenly felt lighter. Not the sort of lighter as if she’d taken off a heavy load from her shoulders, but the sort that she thought she would feel if she suffered a sudden blood loss.

And then, still sitting in bed, she felt careful arms pull her into a warm hug. “Come on. It’s okay. I’m here, I’m here. I told you that I would see you today.” Theodosia looked up to see familiar eyes, bittersweet in expression.

“Oh God, Philip, please, please tell me that this is some terrible dream, you can’t be…” She trailed off, but she wasn’t crying anymore.

“It’s okay, Theodosia,” Philip whispered, refastening his arms. “I’m going to stay as a ghost, after this. It won't be goodbye forever, not really.”

Theodosia put her forehead on Philip’s shoulder, but her eyebrows furrowed. “How do you know you’re going to stay? It isn’t a choice, you know.”

“I know a lot of things,” Philip said, almost dream-like, as if he were just realizing this himself. “I know why, normally, ghosts can’t touch anyone, but I can touch you right now, hug you. I know that Laurens is running here now, to tell you what happened, since he doesn’t know I’m going to stay. And I know what’s best for you,” Phillip said, leaning out of the hug so that he could properly look at Theodosia, “so I need to stay away from you.”

Grabbing one of Philip’s arms with both of her own, Theodosia shook her head in disbelief. “Stay away from me? What are you-” but she cut herself off, unable to voice just one of her protestations at a time. She could barely process her own thoughts. “You can’t,” she said, voice cracking.

“Theodosia,” Philip murmured, the faint smile fading from his face, “you might’ve spent your entire life surrounded by the dead, but you once told me that you never thought of them as dead. You can’t go on with the impression that I’m alive, it- it isn’t healthy. You need to grieve. Laurens and I- you have to live. You can’t focus on the dead. I have no doubt that you can make a life- a really, _really_ good life for yourself. _But fixation isn’t just for the dead to avoid.”_

There was silence for a moment, before Theodosia asked, “why did you go through with the duel? After Laurens and I told you so many times last night that your alternate manifest wouldn’t be a proper substitute? Why didn’t you listen?”

A small smirk returned to Philip’s face. “I still think I’m right about my alternate manifest, you know.” When Theodosia’s face contorted with bewilderment, Philip let out a minute, morose laugh. “The spell. Ten syllables a line, ABACC. I… wasn’t focused. I was shaking with rage, and when I tried to cast the spell…” He sighed, and then recited:

 

_“This man has committed a thoughtless wrong,_

_No chance but to win this honor-bound game_

_For hours and minutes I sought this song._

_Now I wish that blood spill like a river_

_Because my friends ideals are not-”_

 

 _“Silver,”_ they finished together.

Tears welling up in her eyes again, Theodosia let loose a small laugh like Philip had. “I can’t believe you,” she said, though it was nothing but endearment.

But Philip seemed lost in thought. He tilted his head to the side, closing his eyes lightly. Finally, he muttered, “I hear something,” before pressing his free hand on top of Theodosia’s. “I… It’s my father. He’s heard, about my death, he’s coming to see you.” His eyes snapped open, and he suddenly looked a lot more down-to-Earth. “Feel free to turn him away if you want to, but-”

“Oh, come here,” Theodosia said, and drew Philip into yet another hug. “You want to talk to him?”

“Yeah,” he muttered, nuzzling into Theodosia’s shoulder. “Please.”

The two sat there, for maybe twenty minutes, before there was a bustling near the front of the house that was louder than even the street’s bustle. Through some strong determination, the noise managed to gain entry through the previously locked door, and it continued to run rampant through the hallways, throwing open doors and muttering curses, until it finally stopped, Theodosia’s door was thrown open, and Mr Hamilton stood in the doorway. His expression was almost indignant.

For once, he looked at a loss for words. However, Theodosia knew how to cope with this situation better than anyone else in the room. “He’s here,” she said to the man in the doorway. “You can speak with him. Through me.”

“I- nonono, oh God, he- he’s-”

Tearing his eyes away from his still-stuttering father, Philip locked his gaze on Theodosia and nodded slowly. “My magic. I want him to know.”

Theodosia turned to the still-muttering Mr Hamilton. “Philip wants me to tell you something.”

“Anything,” breathed out Mr Hamilton.

“It’s about his magic. He was never magically stagnant, nor cursed.” When Mr Hamilton blindly nodded, Theodosia continued, glancing at Philip, “when I was young, I heard a lot of ghosts talking, whispering. They said that they felt something strange in the city, almost like my magic, but more like poetry. And I worked to figure out the source, and it turned out to be Philip. He has alternate manifest.”

There were two reactions to gauge. Firstly, Mr Hamilton, who stood gaping like a fish and leaning heavily against the doorframe as if he were about to swoon from shock, and then Philip, who had never heard the story of the hunt for poetry. But her professionalism as a medium began to slip, and she had to reorient herself for the conversation- get the dead’s point across, be the speaker for the dead.

She began explaining Philip’s alternate manifest in all the detail she physically could, all the while keeping a tight grip on Philip’s arm. Every so often, Philip would interrupt to better explain an event or concept, and Theodosia recited it word-for-word, and then watched Mr Hamilton’s face contort with mournful recognition at his son’s manner of speaking.

To say the least, it was… painful work.

It passed by in such a blur, that, if asked, Theodosia couldn’t say what had even been discussed. But eventually, through the glaze, she saw Mr Hamilton, uncharacteristically still, walk behind the doorframe and out of sight. She felt Philip, still sat beside her on the bed, rubbing her arm soothingly. “This is ridiculous,” she whispered softly, “I should be comforting _you_.”

“Quite the opposite.” Philip helped Theodosia to lay down, and then smiled a little sadly. “One last sleepover?”

While it felt a little odd to hold it without Laurens recounting the tales of Greek heroes in excited whispers until Philip and Theodosia had fallen asleep, Theodosia nodded softly, and Philip laid down next to her, still clamping her arm. Theodosia figured that his tangibility was connected to maintaining physical contact with her. She unconsciously gripped his hand tighter. “And you’ll be gone when I wake up?”

“Not forever,” Philip assured her. “But probably for a while. Maybe you should focus on experimenting with your own alternate manifest.”

Pursing her lips, Theodosia let out a noncommittal hum. “I really don’t think there’s anything besides the fact that I see dead people. Mediumship is a pretty simple, you know.”

With some of the arrogance that made Philip Philip, he grinned, and elbowed Theodosia. “Oh, but I do know.”

“You know a lot of things?” Theodosia was grinning now, despite knowing that a few seconds ago she’d been ready to cry.

“Yeah,” Phillip said in mock seriousness, “like the fact that you’re an absolute nerd.” Theodosia laughed aloud, and so did Philip, despite each knowing that the other didn’t find the joke that funny.

Despite the fact that it was likely that this was the end of what could only be referred to as an era, a dynasty.

Despite, despite, despite.

If only it had been someone else, Theodosia wouldn’t be laughing, she wouldn’t know how to speak. But because it was Philip, with his cocky grin and his ability to instantly brighten any person’s day, Theodosia didn’t quite feel so lost as she had been. Yes, she would be alone, unbearably alone, without Philip or Laurens, but just lying there…

Despite her entire life having been turned upside down in just one night, she was sure that this would not be the end.

What ‘the end’ was referring to, she didn’t know for sure. The end of herself. The end of her daily routine. The end of her extremely close friend circle. The end of insulting others in their pidgin sign language. The end of it just being _them,_ the three of them versus everyone else.

It wasn’t a question of whether or not this would be easy or difficult; it’ll be the most difficult thing Theodosia had faced and will face. But she could get through it. She had to; there was an obligation that she felt, now, to live among the living. To stop hiding in shadows, with shadows.

Theodosia was scared. But that was okay.

Fleeting memories of inside jokes and playful shoving and camaraderie in the most important sense fueled her dreams, like fire.

When she woke up, Philip was gone, and Theodosia let herself collapse in on herself, crying, sobbing, grieving like she’d done only once before, for her late mother who had not remained behind as a ghost. It was only when she reached for a handkerchief from her dresser that she inexplicably found a bit of white cloth, mildly itchy against her bare skin. She had no need to even hesitate before she recognized it as the very cravat that Philip had used to demonstrate his alternate manifest, over a decade ago.

Despite the painful reminder of simpler times, she smiled sweetly, and held it close to her heart.


	3. here they receive the supplication of a dead man’s hand

When her father woke up, Theodosia had already moved into the living room, where Mr Hamilton had disappeared to. Neither was saying anything, nor doing anything besides sitting and staring at the floor. Her father did a double take when he saw the other man, and then again when he realized that he and Theodosia both did little but breathe. With his frankly _infuriatingly_ cautious tone of speech, her father asked, “Alexander?”

“Aaron,” Mr Hamilton said automatically.

Somehow, this was what tipped off her father that something was wrong. “What’s happened?”

Mr Hamilton seemed to not be able to vocalize anything else.

“There was a duel,” Theodosia said stiffly. “And Philip…” She paused, but it wasn’t to think or to reflect. It was mainly a respite. “I forgot that platonic relationships could form Bonds, too.”

Both she and Mr Hamilton were drawing sharp breaths, now, and the latter was staring at Theodosia with a new curiosity. Then, before Theodosia could understand what was happening, Mr Hamilton stood, crossed the room, and enveloped Theodosia in a hug. It was only when Mr Hamilton began whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” that Theodosia remembered that this man had been through a Shattering, too.

“I’m sorry, too,” Theodosia whispered.

 

* * *

 

It was harder than Theodosia thought to hypothesize about her alternate manifest than she had previously believed. Brainstorming had never been a chore. There were three people coming up with ideas, and two people to check for any logical errors. But now, there was only a blank piece of paper and a quickly drying quill staring back at her. So it had been for what seemed like an hour, though Theodosia knew that reality always did its best to inconvenience those at mercy to it with boredom.

In the time it took for a typical Laurens-Philip-Theodosia Experimentation Plan to be fully thought up, checked for errors, and executed, Theodosia came up with an idea that may or may not be somewhat plausible.

She came up with the idea while thumbing through an old book on all different sorts of magic, and found a page on a spell that allowed the user to project thoughts, memories, or sensations onto another person. Theodosia remembered Philip’s insistence that while one’s alternate manifest did not apply to others’ magic, others’ magic seemed to parallel with one’s alternate manifest.

She thought about being able to let someone other than herself observe the dead, if only for a short while. It would be much easier for the spirits she sometimes séanced for, to bridge the gap between them and their beloveds just a little more.

Not only was Theodosia driven by the admittedly desaturated spirit of discovery, but she felt a sort of obligation to figure out more about her alternate manifest, as Philip had suggested. He’d only said it in passing, that one day after he’d died, but Theodosia had sometimes thought that Philip had always felt a little guilty for being the focus of their experiments.

So, yes, Theodosia would do her best to learn more about her mediumship, if it was to be the only thing she could do in Philip’s memory.

 

* * *

 

After proofing her own plan by herself, leaving it in her dresser for days at a time so that she could become detached to the piece of parchment and more easily find errors in logic, Theodosia found herself ready to begin her experiments.

It came as somewhat of a shock to her when she realized that she had nobody to experiment on. It hit her at lunch one afternoon, a treat of French Onion Soup with her father. She fell silent in the middle of telling him some insignificant detail from her morning, and slowly set her spoon down.

Her father took on an expression of concern. “Theodosia? Are you alright?”

Snapping out of her realization, Theodosia nodded quickly. “Yes, sorry, I just had a sudden thought…” She shook her head, trying to regain focus on the conversation at hand, but her father was already speaking.

“The soup is French, not the onion. Unless, of course, you made it from French onions, then both the soup and the onion is French.”

Theodosia, who had no idea what her father was saying, took a slow sip of the soup. “My thought was about… Experimenting. With my alternate manifest. I just realized that I don’t really have anyone to experiment with.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

There was a bit of clanging of silverware as they both returned to their meal. Theodosia disinterestedly picked off a few herbs from the top of her soup, and then licked off of the bit of soup that got on her finger. It wasn’t very ladylike, but honestly, Theodosia didn’t really care.

“I could help you,” her father said suddenly. He flushed somewhat, as if he’d just voiced a private thought. Then again, Theodosia had always kept the impression that her father’s neutral act was a learned self-preservation instinct that he could never shake off, rather than his actual nature, as if he were a writer who'd distanced himself from words.

If she really dug back into her memories, Theodosia remembered that her mother was very similar. Her parents’ shared outlook on the world was what caused them to fall for each other, and was why they were so compatible. They adored each other, they would give life and limb for each other, but they never learned to confide in one another. Theodosia held the theory that that was why the two had never Bonded; not because of any spite to the other, but the inability to combat the very trait that had also pulled them together.

So when Theodosia looked up at her father with some surprise, she remembered that this man in front of her was human, that he felt emotion just as much as she did, but suffered from the inability to change the most vital part of himself.

“I would like that very much,” Theodosia practically whispered. Her father smiled graciously in response.  


* * *

 

In two days’ time, Theodosia and her father stood at the upper window which was high above the street. She saw the spirits below, completely opaque but intangible, and realized that there was nothing she could actually _see_ which distinguished the ghosts from the living pedestrians. She mildly wondered how her father would be able to differentiate dead and living, but decided that this probably wouldn't work anyways.

She clasped her father’s left hand with both of her own and began chanting a few lines in Greek, and then motioned for her father to close his eyes. Her father repeated the same lines when Theodosia was done, and then they recited them together.

“Okay,” Theodosia said, “you can open your eyes, but don’t let go of my hand.”

There were a few seconds where her father just stared blankly out of the window, his eyes flitting through the crowds. After that, though, he shook his head as if in disbelief. “My God,” he said, “I can see them.”

Then, he did something quite rare nowadays. He turned to Theodosia and smiled, if only it was a bit strained. Some detached voice in her mind pointed out that it still reached his eyes.

Theodosia returned the grin, but wasn’t sure if it was genuine. She was, of course, thankful to her father, for her father. He was trying his best, and stepping out of his comfort zone to do so. But it was such a hard blow to Theodosia. Whooping and yelling and Theodosia struggling to hold in her mirth as Philip whispered _‘shhh!’_ after one of his parents’ questioning shouts. Laurens wouldn’t care, though, and he’d continue cheering loudly for his other two friends, who’d begin signing excitedly.

But just this, just quiet smiles and silent revelation? It felt like a hollow victory.

 

* * *

 

About a week after the experiment with her father, Theodosia decided to do something she never thought she would do again.

She spent the entire day beforehand preparing for it. She tried on each of her dresses at least three times, before realizing that it would be for the best if she just wore her most comfortable dress for the occasion. She bought a nice wicker basket with some of her allowance, and a nice variety of fruits to snack on throughout the following day.

The day of, she slipped on some walking shoes, and, after asking a ghost for directions, made her way to the Hamilton’s new home, uptown.

Having moved to a significantly quieter part of town, their wards were no longer at the Unseekable level, and Theodosia found herself knocking at door she’d never walked up to before, but a woman she knew well swung the door open with a dignified grace. Before she saw Theodosia, the woman seemed to be ready to scold whoever had the gall to interrupt her day, but then her gaze softened.

Slightly flustered, Theodosia greeted, “Good morning, Mrs Hamilton.”

“Theodosia,” she said, wearing that warm, maternal look she had always worn, but this time, pity was mixed in. No, no, not pity. Concern. “It feels as if I haven’t seen you in forever. Would you like to come inside?”

“Actually,” Theodosia said with an embarrassing meekness, “I was wondering if you might be able to take a walk with me. I… wanted to talk.”

“That would be wonderful,” Mrs Hamilton replied, and years of stress and worry that were only apparent in their absence simply disappeared. “Come inside for a moment, while I put on some more confortable shoes.” Theodosia followed Mrs Hamilton into the sitting room, where a woman in a peach dress was lounging with a book. “Theodosia, this is my sister, Angelica.”

Without looking up from her book, Angelica asked her sister, in near-perfect French, “ _is this Ghost Girl, then?”_

Smirking slightly, Theodosia said, “ _Ghost Girl has been fluent in French since before she was ten.”_

While Mrs Hamilton looked mortified on her sister’s behalf, Angelica seemed to not be fazed. Instead, she looked up from her book, scrutinized Theodosia carefully, and then muttered, in Latin, “ _I fail to see how Ghost Girl knowing French is_ my _fault.”_

“ _Ghost girl has also been studying Latin for over seven years.”_

“I told you that you two would get along,” Mrs Hamilton stage-whispered to Angelica, before going to collect her shoes.

 

* * *

 

“I want to show you something,” Theodosia blurted out halfway through their walk. Really, she’d meant to neatly transition to this through a series of pre-planned conversation topics, but she found her anticipation wearing her patience.

A questioning look on her face, Eliza motioned for Theodosia to continue.

Sighing, Theodosia explained, “I need you to memorize a few lines of a spell, for a quasi-ritual.”

“Spell language?”

“Greek.”

“Alright, good,” Mrs Hamilton smiled, “my pronunciation should be no worry then.”

It took only five minutes until Theodosia was ready to try the spell with Mrs Hamilton. The woman’s magical skill was undeniable, even fantastical. Training her father had taken almost an entire day, and the connection still felt shaky to maintain.

The two completed the spell with ease, and when Mrs Hamilton opened her eyes, she let out a slight gasp. Her eyes danced through the crowd, and she seemed paralyzed in shock. Finally, when she was able to look away, she asked Theodosia, “and you see all of these people, all the time?”

“When I’m outside, yes,” Theodosia whispered, feeling a bit nervous. “It’s like another layer that only I see.”

With unreadable intentions, Eliza went on, “and being the only person to see them, does it upset you?”

Theodosia had never been asked that question. Her father had known about it since forever, so it would never really come to him that Theodosia might not be content with it all, due to the fact that she’d never shown signs of distress so far, and he wasn’t exactly the most empathetic person. Laurens, and the rest of the Hamiltons, had the silent agreement to not speak of her powers. And Philip, by the time he’d found out, was more shocked and slighted than sympathetic.

She thought of how her life seemed to be defined by this one ability of hers. Of how Philip was the only person her age she’d spoken to regularly, of how she had learned to languish in relative obscurity to protect what _dredges_ of a normal life she could muster. She thought of how she’d been forced to give up any chances of a normal life to her alternate manifest.

She answered slowly, so that she did not stutter out her response. “I owe everything I am to my alternate manifest. Without it, I wouldn’t even be talking to you, I would have never even looked twice at Philip. It’s made me who I am today, and I’ve never felt ashamed of myself as others might have. But, at the same time, I could only ever share that part of myself with so _few_ people, and Philip only found out two or three years ago. I… Yes. It does upset me.” She hung her head slightly, feeling unjustly ashamed at herself for her confession.

However, Mrs Hamilton seemed to be unable to have that. She used her hand not holding Theodosia’s to lift the younger girl’s chin so that they were looking at each other. “Then let me at least give you a day of company. Walk me around, introduce me. I won’t let any daughter of mine feel alone.”

It was too much for Theodosia. She wrapped her arms around Mrs Hamilton, and let tears fall. The woman was careful to maintain skin-to-skin contact for the spell, but hugged her just as tightly. Not once did she shush Theodosia. Her hushed assurances had no pity in them, and she guided Theodosia out of the street without rush, and for the girl’s own sake. Theodosia didn’t quite know how to express her gratitude, so she just deepened the hug, and sobbed when the gesture was returned.

 

* * *

 

Theodosia’s increased studies into her magic were proving more fruitful than expected. She’d taken up something like a partnership with a man who’d been hanged as a British spy somewhat North of the city, and who’d taken an interest in Theodosia’s experiments. The two definitely weren’t friends, but Theodosia often needed a guinea pig for her experiments, and the ghost needed a cure for boredom.

So far, Theodosia had found that individual ghosts all existed on separate planes. While Theodosia had known for a very long time that ghosts could neither see nor interact with other ghosts, they never seemed to pass through each other, but to move out of the way without a second thought. But the ghost who’d been helping her had proved that ghosts could neither see each other, nor could they touch.

Not only that, but when a ghost’s form intercepted Theodosia’s, she found that, with minute readjustments of spells, they could affect that ghost’s private plane. She could conjure objects directly into the plane, or transfer them from the physical plane to ghost plane to ghost plane and back to the physical plane. The desperate way that the spy had gulped down the water she’d transferred... she wondered how it must feel to be unable to sate your thirst for almost two decades.

But one day, Theodosia listened to the spy ghost say something in passing about sensing Theodosia’s magic. “It’s like a mix of a taste and a smell,” he explained, “except a feeling, sometimes an emotion. Because you have alternate manifest, yours is much stronger, much more distinct. Slightly wilted flowers and twilight. Not sunrise or sunset individually, but both, simultaneously. But others, without alternate manifest, it’s more like the scent of a house. Individual homes can either feel like cinnamon, or sugar, fresh linen, or candle smoke, but they’re all somehow very similar.”

Nodding absently, Theodosia asked him, “since we’ve already determined I can even cast spells into a ghost’s pocket dimension, do you think it would be plausible that I could also learn to sense other magics?”

“You didn’t think it plausible to be able to do anything but to see and speak to ghosts, so I can’t say that it would be a wasted avenue.” He stood from the bench they were sitting on, standing completely unbothered even when a few kids ran through him. “It’s easier if you start near a heavily warded area, because wards give off extraordinarily strong feelings.”

Without thinking, Theodosia nodded, and then said, “to the museums, then.”

The ghost’s lips parted slightly, and looked over Theodosia as if she’d promised to bring him back from the dead. Intrigued. But his face soon tilted to the side, and he noted, “I never told you that the museums were the most heavily warded area in the city.”

“Well, of course they are,” Theodosia said, speaking in what she hoped was not a condescending tone. “The wards there are so thick that it’s practically-”

“Like trying to breathe after a strenuous run?” The ghost smiled. “That’s what anti-theft wards feel like. And livings usually have no ability to feel wards.” When Theodosia just stared back at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, the ghost chuckled. “Yes, I guess that you might have a talent for it, however unbeknownst it may have been previously. Come, let’s see if you’re able to differentiate between human and creature magics…”

 

* * *

 

It took a good number of months, but with the ghost’s help, Theodosia was soon able to differentiate between individual weaker wards, then living humans’ magics, and after that, ghosts’ auras. The ghost was correct, in that it was a sense like smell or taste. If she were to be honest, though, it was more like she had the ability to see from birth, surrounded with books and plays and novels but grew up in a society that did not know how to read.

Yes, that was what this feeling was like. Reading. Whenever she was anywhere, so many sensations filled her, yet somehow they never merged into or obscured one another. Everything was somehow unique in its feeling, to the point where Theodosia longed to explore the world just to experience all of them.

The senses the people around her gave off seemed to fit their character and their prefered style of magic. Mrs Hamilton, for instance, felt of a campfire in the forest, warm and nurturing, unless it caught fire to the underbrush around it. Theodosia’s father felt of a set of volatilely balanced scales and sewing together textiles.

Sometimes, she thought that could even sense the cravat on her dresser, the long-since faded poetry radiating from it,

Lately, though, she felt an unbalance of sorts in the senses that seemed otherwise smooth and uniform. Like the world itself was preparing for the recoil of a gun, an increasing buildup of everything. Magic seemed to be stronger, and not just for Theodosia. Newspapers commented on it, advising readers who were waiting to cast an important spell or ritual to do it now. And, when Theodosia shared her sight with Mrs Hamilton, which had since become a regular appointment between them, the woman commented on an odd feeling that was undeniably the sensation of the nearby wards. That was very new, and very alarming.

 

* * *

 

The tension was becoming unbearable. It had gotten to the point where Theodosia was almost constantly looking over her shoulder for some nonexistent stalker. The ghosts were feeling that, as well. They were afraid, showing ever-present caution, as if they were being picked off one by one.

Somehow, she managed to hide the way it affected her. She put a pause on the walks with Mrs Hamilton, claiming the need to experiment while the magic was still strong. Mrs Hamilton, ever the researcher, agreed almost profusely, to the point where Theodosia thought that the woman was hoping, a little guiltily, to dedicate every possible moment of her time to her research. Theodosia’s father, meanwhile, was very busy in his work, seeming to spend more time eating than he did sleeping. So as long as Theodosia did not explicitly tell her father that something was wrong, he would not pick up on anything.

Her ability to sense magics was ever so slightly dulled by the sheer intensity of the tension. She had trouble differentiating the magics of living people, which caused the tiniest bit of trouble, as she had grown used to forgetting people’s names and faces; sensing them had proven to be far more reliable.

Even with the dulling of her ability to sense magics, there was something… waning. That was just about the only way to describe it. The moon waning slowly as the Sun grew brighter and brighter. It was difficult to tell which would reach its fullest extent first.

 

* * *

 

It became difficult to sleep. Theodosia laid in bed, staring at the ceiling for what felt like hours, only to wake up before sunrise. She had the instinctive knowledge that she would not be able to go back to sleep, and so stood somewhat reluctantly, exiting to the kitchen with the intention to fix herself something to hold her over until a decent hour.

Her father was slumped over a letter that Theodosia didn’t take the time to glance over. The candle that lit what had been his workspace was still giving off light. Theodosia sighed, taking the candle and returning to her room, where she had last seen the candle snuffer.

The candlelight made the snuffer easy to spot, the warm light flickering off the shiny metal snuffer. She thought that she saw something in the reflection behind her, but there was nothing there when she looked back. She shuffled over to the snuffer, but paused before she lifted it. Underneath the snuffer was a piece of parchment, a mere seven words, written in a familiar scrawl.

_It’ll happen soon- Can you feel it?_

She set down the candle and grasped the note in both hands. “Yes, I can,” she muttered, wondering if this was what others felt like when they did not know if their passed loved ones were listening to them. There was definitely something in the air, something which she _herself_ had never sensed, but knew of well. Ambiguity, it felt like, almost like _poetry_.

 

* * *

 

“Theodosia,” a voice whispered, breaking her away from her dream.

Typically, Theodosia was an early waker. But these days, she clung onto whatever dredges of sleep she was physically able to, and she figured that she had only gotten an hour of sleep. Therefore, she did not think it undignified to wrap her pillow around her head in order to blot out the noise of being awake.

The voice chuckled a little, with the sort of manner that said that the speaker was a step away from breaking into tears of joy. Theodosia let herself untense the tiniest bit, taking a moment to put effort to recognizing the voice. With a hint of hope in her voice, Theodosia asked, “Laurens?”

She turned over, seeing Laurens himself sitting on the bed as if he was giving her a bedtime story. He definitely had tears in his eyes from attempting to constrain his joy. This emotion was different from laughter, and was one that Theodosia had never actually seen on the man: undiluted happiness. Other than that, he was the same as ever, his uniform impressive and hair pulled back. Theodosia felt the want to lead Laurens through everything that she had learned, to ask him where Philip was, and why the two of them weren’t together. But she didn’t manage to speak against her shock.

“Tomorrow morning,” Laurens said softly. And, when he continued, there was a definite tremble in his voice. “There’s going to be a meeting.”

Confused, Theodosia asked, “between..?”

Eyes shining, he answered, “Alexander and I,” and let out a breath that was almost a laugh. Tears began falling from his eyes, evaporating as soon as they left his cheek. “I’ll be able to speak to him again, _hold_ him-”

Laurens broke off, his attempt at a quiet facade breaking into joyous sobs. “I know I shouldn’t be so excited, but…” Laurens pawed at his face in order to wipe the tears away, and only then did Theodosia’s sleep-muddled mind realize what Laurens was saying.

Slightly startled, Theodosia barked out, “how? How is it going to happen, how do you know he’s going to die?”

“A duel,” he told her. “Philip and I learned how to scry a few years ago, and we saw the letters about setting it up.”

“How do you know he’s going to lose the duel?”

“He’s planning to,” Laurens said, with the air of one spreading a scandalous rumor, “well, not quite, but he’s planning to delope, but the person he’s up against…” Laurens shook his head. “Alexander doesn’t know that his opponent intends to shoot. And, just maybe, he does know. He… well, you know that he isn’t having the easiest time, after… after the pamphlet, and all.” What Theodosia did know was that Laurens was grossly understating the issue. She nodded slowly. After a few moments of quiet, Laurens went on, “Philip’s arranging it all. He’s waiting to… to collect Alexander. He said that we should spend the day together, swap notes or something of the like.”

Snorting a bit, Theodosia pulled herself to sit up in bed. “When did Philip learn to be so damn authoritative?”

“Well, he looks the same, but he’s grown.” As Laurens went on, he took on the role of a very proud parent. “Alexander had once said that he didn’t think Philip would join the army because he’d spoiled him too much, but Philip, I think, would’ve made an excellent officer. He just has that leadership gene, and, now that he’s thrown himself into doing this, it’s really showing.” Laurens let out a bark of laughter, saying, “I very quickly lost my footing as respectable paternal figure, and _I’m_ the one wearing the blue uniform.”

Theodosia laughed too. She stood up, and made a gesture for Laurens to leave the room. “Shoo, now, I need to get dressed.”

“Alright,” Laurens said, and squeezed through the ajar door, and called, “I’ll be doing my best to annoy your father!”

 

* * *

 

When Laurens and Theodosia were just halfway down the street, she was interrupted when she saw the British ghost walking up to her. She motioned for Laurens to wait a second, using the hand signal for _‘ghost,’_ and then called to the other ghost, “are you up for a half-brained, impromptu experiment?” The crowds around Theodosia ignored her, leaving her free to do or say just about whatever she wanted.

“Of course,” the ghost said, smiling cordially. “I was planning to ask if you had come up with any of those in the recent days, anyways.”

“Unfortunately, this is not borne of plan, but of hasty necessity. I’m walking with another spirit, and I think I can alter a spell enough so that we’ll all be able to speak.” Quickly, Theodosia explained the spell. Theodosia knew the British ghost to be somewhat of a prodigy at memorizing spells, so there was no issue there. Laurens and Philip must’ve figured out how to cast spells, too, as it took Laurens only two tries to recite it correctly.

When it came time, she had each ghost hold out their forearms, and made sure they stayed still as Theodosia clipped each of her arms through the two’s hands. She recited the spell with open eyes, and then the others recited it, in poor unison, with closed eyes.

“Okay, you can open your eyes, now.”

It was with a start that Theodosia remembered that she was introducing a British spy to a Continental officer, the ramifications of which she had not considered.

The spy raked his eyes over Laurens’ impressive blue coat, and then twisted his head. Theodosia was unable to read his thoughts, but he simply asked, “you’re a _Patriot,_ then?” The fire in ‘Patriot’ was scarily cold.

“Yes,” Laurens announced with a contemptuous tone. It seemed to have dawned on him that the man before him was a Loyalist, and he did not look the happier for it. “Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens.”

Theodosia paled as a smile grew on the spy’s face. “I believe I’ve heard of you before. It’s my impression that we have a mutual friend.”

“And who is this friend, exactly?”

“One certain Alexander Hamilton.” Laurens stared disbelievingly at the other ghost, until he continued, “Ever so pleased to meet you. I’m Major John André-”

“Oh my GOD,” Theodosia yelled as Laurens lunged for André, making sure to keep a leg still clipping to Theodosia. She was thankful for the crowds around her, because if she had been standing still, seething in the street after having shouted, her sheer mortification would’ve been worse than it already was.

After deftly moving out of the way of Laurens’ mad punch, André twisted around Theodosia, giving cause for Laurens to chase him, until they were scampering around Theodosia like bickering ferrets, André looking as if he were enjoying a childhood game, and Laurens as if he were back in the war.

Looking to the sky, Theodosia hissed, “you two are supposed to be _adults,_ so _act like it!”_ Although seemingly reluctantly, the two returned back to standing on either side of Theodosia like normal (but dead) human beings, clipping with Theodosia’s arms. “Now, since the two of you are obviously unable to get along-” neither made any protest, “-I’m going to spend the day with Laurens. It’s been much too long since I’ve seen him, and-

“I think that I’ll try and board a ship to London,” André said suddenly. Theodosia looked at him curiously, but the man just shrugged. “Too many damned Patriots.” He nodded to Theodosia, and drew his arm out of Theodosia’s. “I wish you luck.”

As André walked away, Theodosia frowned. “Alright, then.”

Laurens drew away from Theodosia ever so slightly, as he no longer had to keep his arm clipping to Theodosia’s. But suddenly, he bursted out into laughter, ecstatic, jovial laughter. It did not take long for Theodosia to join in.

 

* * *

 

Theodosia left a note at her house for her father, saying that she was going to be with a friend for the night and not to worry about her.

She and Laurens spent the entire night pointing out constellations and creating new ones, reciting legends and making stories up for the constellations of their own invention. Luckily, Theodosia had never had a problem with staying awake for a night or two. Maybe it was a side effect of being a bridge to the tireless dead, Theodosia thought, but whatever it was, she was glad for it.

When civil twilight began, and the stars were fading rapidly from view, the pair began walking again, with Laurens in the lead. “Philip is going to be… standing by. Alexander still has to say goodbye to Eliza, and then Philip is going to take Alexander to the park, where we’ll be.”

“The duel should start at sunrise, right?”

Laurens looked up at the sky, almost impatient. The sky was a few shades of blue, but none of the sun’s rays had peeked out from beyond the horizon yet. “At sunrise.”

They walked for a few more minutes, reached the park, and then sat down on one of the benches. They tried for conversation, but each of them were much too taken with anticipation for small talk.

Finally, though, Laurens took in a sharp breath.

“What is it,” Theodosia asked as quick as her tongue let her, eyes wide.

“He’s been shot,” Laurens said in a dream-like state. “I don’t know how I know, but he’s been shot. It’s a mortal wound.”

Not knowing what else to say, Theodosia asked in a small voice, “how do you feel, about all this?”

Smiling with melancholy, Laurens shrugged. “A little bit of everything. I’m happy, excited, even, that I’ll be able to speak with him again. I’m even sadder that it has to be in death. Especially one like this. I’m angry, that I couldn’t have just stayed alive. I feel guilty for making this about me. But… just the thought of seeing him again and having him see me back, there’s a feeling attached to it that I can’t describe. The anticipation of fulfilling two decades’ worth of yearning, that’s the only way I can describe it.”

_I understand,_ Theodosia thought, but, for some reason, she could not bring herself to say it out loud.

 

* * *

 

Theodosia and Laurens found a table with a chess board set up on it and faced each other for the rest of the day, and, when the sun went down, they returned to naming and creating constellations. Theodosia allowed herself to sleep for a few hours, on the condition that Laurens would wake her if anything out of the usual happened. However, she woke up with the sun hot on her cheek. Groaning, she turned to a fidgeting Laurens. “You didn’t wake me up?”

“Nothing’s happened yet,” Laurens murmured, sounding strained. After a bit of silence, Laurens asked, “oh, has the tension eased for you? You mentioned that it messed up your sleeping schedule.” The tension had not been apparent to Theodosia since the morning Laurens showed up. The waning was eclipsing the tension that had been so strong, and Theodosia felt more weak than anxious. She expressed this to Laurens, who nodded. “It feels like we’re the sun during an eclipse.”

Suddenly, though, Laurens inhaled sharply, leaning forwards and clutching his stomach. “Totality,” was all that he said, and then looked up, sharply. Theodosia was almost reminded of a dog who’d just spotted what it was hunting. “We need to get to the hill,” Laurens said without preamble, and ran off.

Theodosia followed quickly behind, moving without tripping on her skirts, a skill that she thanked herself for developing. They both sprinted past trees and people and benches, until they came across a large, abandoned clearing, which was home to a grassy hill. “Did Philip tell you about this place?”

“I just _know,”_ Laurens declared determinedly. “We have maybe two minutes.” He jumped onto a small ledge, and Theodosia followed his path.

“Won’t it take a while for the two of them to get here?”

“No,” Laurens said as he reached the top. “Philip and I  discovered a way to… well, it’s complex. Either we are able to speed up ourselves as we walk, or we slow down everything around us, as we walk. It’s how we delivered the note.”  

As Theodosia also reached the top, she watched Laurens turn on his heel over and over again, scanning the treeline with a fevered desperation.

“Hey, Laurens?” Theodosia was surprised to hear her own voice, and, seemingly, so was Laurens.

Nonetheless, Laurens look at her questioningly for just a moment. “What is it?”

“Good luck,” Theodosia muttered.

“Thank you,” Laurens replied softly, and somehow, his voice conveyed all of the handshakes, shoulder punches, friendly shoves, and warm hugs that circumstance had robbed from the two of them. “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

She felt it before she could see it.

Evidently, Laurens could feel it, too, because he stiffened and became as still as a statue. He was facing the opposite direction that the feeling was coming from, and Theodosia guessed that maybe he was too nervous to bring himself to turn around. And, had Theodosia not been facing the origin of the feeling, she probably would have done the same.

That was because the feeling was a mixture of the all-too-famed-poetry, and a sort of electrical charge that one felt preceding a thunderstorm. It was the surrealness of being in the serenity of the eye of a cyclone, surrounded on all sides by destruction. It was a fluid sort of magic, ever-shifting and dynamic, so that one might become dizzy if they attempted to stare too deep into it. The magic had never been this strong while its owner was alive, but in death, it had reached its proper intensity.

Without even a thought, Theodosia felt herself move out of the way of the path of the two magics, but she kept her eyes focused on the trees. When two figures emerged from the bramble, Theodosia drew in a breath, and became quite proud of her composure. Her best friend was speaking quietly to his father, and their eyes were trained on each other until they were fully clear of the treeline. Then, Philip made a short sweeping gesture with his hand towards Laurens.

The look on Hamilton’s face remained with Theodosia for the rest of her life. There was a choked sob that was almost a cry for help- no, this wasn’t a cry for help. It was fighting a long, hopeless battle, and then seeing the only person you ever wished for, you saw them riding in command of an army of reinforcements. It was relief beyond measure, the realization that all of the _‘iloveyou’s_ that you thought to be unheard had been delivered, it was the dawn after an unbearable amount of time in darkness.

As if time had suddenly unfrozen, Hamilton dashed up the hill, and, as he did, he began to shift. His face smoothed out, though perhaps became a little gaunter. His hair darkened, and he threw his glasses to the ground. His outfit morphed from a grim black to a sapphire blue, stretching and becoming what was his Continental uniform. For whatever reason, maybe for many reasons, Hamilton was now returned to how he was back during the war, and Theodosia couldn’t help but see the tiniest bit of righteousness in that.

When Laurens had finally turned, Hamilton had just reached him. The latter leaped off of the ground, and the two of them were knocked off of their feet due to the force of impact. They ended up rolling down the hill with two shouts of surprise. Theodosia and Philip both rushed up the hill to make sure that the pair was alright, and found themselves standing side by side.

Meanwhile, Hamilton and Laurens had both scrambled up to their knees. With closed eyes, their foreheads were pressed together, and Hamilton cupped his hands around the back of Laurens’ head, as if paused just before pulling the other man into a kiss. Laurens, conversely, had his hands floating in the air between the the two of them, as if he were equally afraid to put them back by his side as he was to reach out with them. Slowly, his hands rose in a shaky manner, but only a few inches. Hamilton’s eyes peeked open, and, seeing Laurens’ hesitation, grabbed the other man’s hands, and placed them on his own cheeks. At this, Laurens’ eyes opened, and he took back his right hand in order to trace Hamilton’s face. “Never again,” Laurens muttered, “I promise, I won’t leave you alone ever again.”

At this, Hamilton cracked a humored smile. “And you’ll fulfill this promise to its fullest extent?”

The grin was returned. “Only with the most _honorable_ intentions.”

Before Theodosia could decipher the joke, the two men began guffawing without constraint, so that there were tears in their eyes, and though they hardly needed to breathe, reflexes had them both taking in sharp breaths of air.

Eventually, both men calmed, and Laurens was left lying against Hamilton’s chest, each wrapping their arms around each other. Laurens’ head laid contentedly on Hamilton’s shoulder, his fingers lazily running through the shorter man’s hair. Hamilton, meanwhile, looked up towards Philip. “I know that Eliza will come, when it’s her time, but what about you?”

“Soon,” Philip promised, and Theodosia couldn’t help but notice how he’d grown, in the way that he held himself, in the way that he spoke. “It’s not time yet, but soon.”

“I can’t wait,” muttered Laurens without looking up. “I can’t wait for how it should’ve been.” There was silence for a little afterwards, where Laurens just continued messing with Hamilton’s hair. In time, however, Laurens stopped, and raised his head just the tiniest bit. “Are you ready?”

Nodding slowly, Hamilton said heavily, “yes.”

The two stood slowly, gripping each other’s hands tightly. “Do you remember when Lafayette and I taught you how to dance?”

“Yes,” Hamilton said again, letting out a breathy chuckle. “I was terrible at it. I kept on stepping on your toes, until Lafayette got so upset with me that he brought in the rest of the family, as ‘motivation.’”

“And then you tripped and fell onto Meade. That was truly Lafayette at his cruelest,” John joked. But he slipped his right hand onto Hamilton’s waist, and Hamilton grabbed John’s left hand with his own right. After a moment of confusion on where to put his remaining hand, Hamilton shrugged and slung it over John’s shoulder. That made John laugh.

Then, they started dancing. It was slow, at first. Not quite hesitant, but careful. Theodosia couldn’t help but smile when Hamilton lifted his arm for Laurens to spin underneath, only to have Laurens have to duck under it ungracefully due to the height difference. Their speed increased after that, and their steps became littered with what could only be called missteps as a technicality. It was performed with the same confidence and comfort that were quintessential to how the two spoke with each other.

Once the dance was so fast that neither could keep up, Laurens wrapped both of his hands tightly around Mr Hamilton's torso, and Laurens lifted Hamilton into the air. They laughed loudly, as they both had, during just this meeting, so many times. When Hamilton’s feet were back on the ground, though, he did not return to dancing posture. Instead, he held Laurens’ back and head, and somehow dipped the taller man. They both stayed in that posture, giving each other almost dreamy smiles, until Hamilton finally leaned in to kiss Laurens.

Their lips connected for just a moment, and then a breeze came through, and their forms became pure white smoke, and they dissolved into the air.


	4. in death's other kingdom, walking alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!! this is the last chapter before the epilogue (I'm going to post it either tommorow or in a few hours), but the first four chapters are standalone and ch4 cantotally be the end if you don't want to read the epilogue for whatever reason. however, there are some things that i'd like to adress before we get started:  
> Firstly, all i know about Joseph Alston, hitory-wise, is that he was married to theodosia, was kinda rich, and was a govenor or something of south carolina. I took some major liberties with his character, so please acknowledge that this is my 'musical-version' of alston. aka the cool, feminist version that you should by no means think is historically accurate.  
> Secondly, there is some potentially upsetting content in this chapter. That content is: (spoilers, but, technically it happened like 200 years ago, so...) death of a child and the narrator dying, specifically by drowning.  
> So, there we go! enjoy the chapter!

“They’ve moved on,” Philip said, eventually.

Ghost and living, the two were both facing the spot where Mr Hamilton and Laurens had disappeared from. It was strange, the simultaneous want to run over to hug Philip and the knowledge that, if she tried to do that, all that she would feel would be empty air. So, Theodosia nodded somewhat blankly instead. “I’ve never seen it before,” she admitted, and waved her hand over where Mr Hamilton and Laurens had stood. “I didn’t even know that it was possible for ghosts to move on. I thought that they simply faded, or just went somewhere else, without telling me. And it wasn’t as if there was any books on the subject, since, well, you know how mediums are, historically.”

“Yeah.” Philip nodded tersely, most likely remembering the night when Theodosia had stayed up with Philip and Laurens, telling them of the fates which many mediums shared. Among the top three were giving into insanity, telling others about their gift only to be burned for demonic witchcraft, and telling others about their gift only to be murdered for being unable or unwilling to perform a seance.

After a few moments, though, Theodosia couldn’t help herself. She walked up to Philip and reached her hands as if to hold him by his shoulders. Of course, their forms merely clipped through each other. Deflating, Theodosia sighed. “Sorry, I don’t know why I did that. I just… I really miss you.”

He looked at her with familiar eyes, bittersweet in expression. “And I miss you, too.”

Shaking her head, Theodosia frowned. “I’m not going to convince you to stop hiding, am I?”

“No.” Phillip almost looked sheepish at this declaration. “But I’d love to stay and talk for a little bit, of that’s fine by you.”

“Of course it is,” Theodosia said in a significantly lighter tone. Really, she was happier than words could express that Philip was here, that they would be able to talk. But there was still a part of her that was angry that Philip was correct about how he should stay away, and angry at herself that she was disregarding it and pushing Philip to do something that he didn’t want to do.

And then, it hit Theodosia. It wasn’t just her who disliked the situation. It was just that Philip believed that he was somehow more able to decide these things because of his ghostly senses. It was a perfect example of Philip’s trademark arrogance. He was just trying to act how he thought he should out of altruism. Theodosia laughed aloud, because this was her Philip.

Almost suspicious, Philip furrowed his eyebrows. “What?”

“You’re you, even after all this time,” Theodosia explained. “Stubborn and egotistical, but always righteous.”

“Two-to-one bad to good adjective ratio,” Philip noted. “Not bad, but I think I could’ve done better. It looks like I need to step my game up.”

The two began walking out of the clearing, and Theodosia switched seamlessly to sign as they got within earshot of others.

_“Let’s not fail to mention the time that Laurens earned an eighteen-to-one from you,”_ Theodosia pointed out, alluding to a situation when Laurens had poked fun at Philip’s outfit one too many times. _“And there were four positive adjectives. Now that I think about it, you’re very verbally abusive towards him.”_

Rolling his eyes, Philip said, “he’s our insane older brother-slash-parent, I’m only doing what’s required of me.”

_“Then I’ve been avoiding my responsibilities?”_

“Hell no,” Philip waved off. “Those responsibilities fall to the insane younger brother. You’re the sane sister. _Your_ responsibility is keeping us entertained with crazy schemes against a certain fish-eater so that we don’t get bored and become serial killers.”

_“That was startlingly specific.”_

Chuckling softly, Philip fell into a stretch of quiet. Immediately, Theodosia realized that something was up. She made to speak again, but was slower than Philip. “I have something to tell you about the circumstances of my father’s death.”

Before Theodosia could allow herself to notice how rushed out Philip’s words were, as if he’d been trying to pull out a tooth, she signed, _“what is it, Philip?”_

Having already paused their walk, Theodosia looked over Philip carefully, looking for anything that could reveal what he was attempting to say. But Philip, as he usually did in situations which were uncomfortable to him, ignored Theodosia’s gaze, in favor of staring at the ground.

“He was in a duel,” Philip said in a significantly slower voice. This time, it was more like he was hesitant to let it come out than he was anxious to get it over with. “He was in a duel because he refused to apologize for certain insults against a political rival.”

Tilting her head slightly, Theodosia nodded, as if this ‘surprising’ news was simply the fact that two plus two is four. At least, that’s what it felt like. _“He challenged someone to a duel. Didn’t he try to fight the entire Democratic-Republican party once? What else is new?”_

But Philip didn’t laugh along, he just shook his head back and forth. “My father didn’t challenge anybody to a duel. Someone challenged _him.”_

Taken aback, Theodosia tried for nonchalance. _“Well, I guess that’s what’s new.”_ But curiosity overtook Theodosia, and eventually, she asked, _“who, exactly, challenged your father to the duel?”_

She knew, she knew it before Philip whispered guiltily, “ _your_ father.”

_I have to go,”_ Theodosia signed frantically, beginning to turn away from Philip. _“I have to-”_

“Theodosia,” Philip called out, a little sadly, and she stopped, “this is the last time that I’m going to let myself see you until- until it’s time for me to collect you.”

Dragging her eyes back to Philip, her best friend, she felt not only her shoulders, but also a bit of her heart, sagging under the weight of that statement. She knew that Philip was going to return to avoiding her. She also knew that Philip was well meaning, that he thought that death had somehow made him smarter or more mature. Maybe it _had_ made him more mature, but Theodosia stood by the fact that she was the more intelligent of the two, and the inability to interact with an object’s velocity was _not_ about to change that. But Philip, sweet and confident, was sure in his heart that this was the right thing to do, and Theodosia wasn’t sure, even if it _wasn’t_ impossible for Philip to change his mind, that she could emotionally take arguing with him. Not if her only side was that it would be positive for _her._

Instead, Theodosia settled for a resigned smile, and signed, _“you’re a stubborn idiot, you know that?”_

Giving a tense grin, Philip replied with mock flippancy, “it’s my duty as insane brother to be a stubborn idiot, though.”

_“Hey,”_ Theodosia said. She used the signal for getting someone’s attention, even though Philip’s focus was firmly fixed on Theodosia. She hoped that it came across in the intended way: as an indirect method to make sure that it was obvious that she really, really meant her following words. _“I’m going to miss you. And, hey, I love you, bro.”_

For some reason, this made Philip laugh as clear as a bell. It was nothing malicious, or mocking. It was purely joy. “You, too, sis. I’ll see you soon. Promise.”

They stared at each other for a bit more, Theodosia walking backwards a few steps. Then, she turned, breaking into a run.

When she looked back, Philip was walking in the opposite direction, and his head was turned, too.

It was even harder to face forwards, again.

 

* * *

 

Before anything, Theodosia stopped home in order to get the spiked anti-mugger walking cane.

She felt like she was on a warpath, and for a moment she believed that she could’ve been a general from the war.

There was no need to stop a ghost in the street to get directions. Theodosia felt every single magic in the city, and she felt them all with startling accuracy. She did not stop to ponder on the cause of this, whether it was due to the wrath she felt or due to the release of the tension.

She felt lighter than she did in weeks, felt like a shark in water. She felt the fish- the crowds- swerve away from her more than usual. She gained a wide berth, even from horse and carriage. Despite this, she still heard whispers back and forth, saying how _‘no wonder she’s so mad,’_ or, _‘she’s always been close to that family.’_ All of them said, _‘oh, that poor girl.’_

Theodosia hated pity. It was something unhelpful and unwanted that was only delivered when the best gift was to simply _stay away._

Eventually, though, she found her father.

He was sitting alone in an empty bar, not even the bartender in sight. His head was in his hands, and a drink sat near him, but it was untouched. Gripping the spiked cane a bit tighter, Theodosia stepped forwards until she knew that she was in her father’s peripheral vision. “Congratulations,” Theodosia said amiably, and then took a seat at a barstool, eyes ever so slightly open wide. “You’re the first living person that I’ve spoken to in what, three days now?”

“Theodosia-”

“And could you _imagine_ the people I was speaking to?”

Her father fell silent, protests be damned.

“Well, first of all was Laurens. He woke me up, three days ago, on the verge of tears. We went on a walk, said hello to a person or two. This was, of course, _after_ he told me that the man who was practically a second father to me was about to die.”

She watched with cold eyes as her father stiffened, but plowed on. “At first, I was so confused. But then, I realized that of _course_ something like that was happening. What else could that buildup of magic be leading up to?”

At this, her father’s eyebrows furrowed. “The buildup of magic was-”

“I’m not saying _what_ it was,” Theodosia interrupted. “However, it was directly related, if not caused by, Mr Hamilton’s death.” When her father flinched at the name, Theodosia rolled her eyes. “But yes, if you want to think of it as _your_ fault, I don’t think you’re wrong in that assumption.” She reinstated her conversational tone, and mentioned, “Philip was there. We saw each other, talked to each other. And do you know what he told me? Well, it looks like it’s obvious what he told me, judging from what we’re sitting here and talking about, hm?” Her father didn’t say anything, though. He just sat there, not making eye contact. “Since you need an invitation to do so, feel free to reply to me.”

“I thought that he was going to shoot,” her father said in a near-whisper. “By the time I saw differently, I’d already pressed the trigger…”

Shaking her head, with a little bit less gusto, Theodosia said, “he was planning to throw away his shot much before the duel.”

“I _had_ to shoot. I couldn’t think of-”

“Of what, leaving your _nineteen year-old_ daughter to fend for herself? What about all of Mr Hamilton’s children? Not just sons or daughters, but actual _children.”_

“The world is so harsh to women, I have to help to find you a husband who will tr-”

“The world is harsh to women? Good thing I don’t have to deal with being a widow _and_ raising seven children. And,” sticking out her chin a bit defiantly, Theodosia announced, “I’m already seeing someone.”

It wasn’t a lie. Her relationship with Joseph Alston was ill-defined and irregular, the only definite thing about it being that it was not platonic. The dynamic nature of the relationship was a welcome feature, and both parties, each with much structure and regularity in their lives, agreed on this.

This made her father startle. “Since when- Who-?”

“It _doesn’t matter,”_ Theodosia waved off, really not wanting to have that discussion right now. “What matters is you understanding just how _furious_ I am with you. I’m not six years old anymore! I wouldn’t mind nearly as much if it were just me that was affected by this, but now… Actually, you know what? I’m done with this.” Theodosia scoffed lightly, at either her father’s idiocy or at her own hope that this accusation could bring any good, she did not know. But, even then, Theodosia turned on her heel, and made sure to close the door loud enough for her father to hear.

 

* * *

 

When Theodosia was only a few feet from the empty bar, a hand laid itself on her shoulder. On instinct, Theodosia swung around with the spiked cane, but froze when she saw Joseph Alston in front of her. “Whoah,” he exclaimed, laughing a little. “Don’t worry, I’m not here for your purse.”

Letting herself smirk only a little, Theodosia lifted up her chin, and said, “Joseph. Glad to see you, actually.”

He said, “I’m glad too,” and then laughed a little as Theodosia leaned over to kiss his cheek. They were the same height, since Theodosia was so tall.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you something.” Theodosia’s lips moved of their own accord, like feet did while walking. Her conscious mind was caught unaware at that declaration, but it was curious to see how things might go.

It seemed that Joseph was in the same situation, judging from the almost taken aback look on his face. _It was probably due to the fact that we rarely tell each other anything about our lives,_ Theodosia mused.

As they began walking, Theodosia said amiably to Joseph, “I have alternate manifest, you know.”

Without even falling out of step, Joseph merely raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know.”

After letting out a short chuckle, Theodosia continued, “I’m a medium, but I can also sense magics- like wards or people, I can cast spells on ghosts, or cast a spell on people so that they can see spirits, as well.” Having said this entire spiel while facing forwards, Theodosia turned, and saw Joseph’s almost owlish expression. She offered, “we could always do that, if you’re interested.”

He didn’t answer for a moment, but then he stammered out, “y-yeah, that sounds- that’s a good idea, let’s, let’s do it. Yeah.” When Theodosia shot him an odd look, he looked away a bit, and then rubbed his neck. “I’m sorry, it’s just- well, if you decided to tell me something like this, you must want to, well, for us to keep on seeing each other. For a while.”

“I do want that,” Theodosia replied, smiling reassuringly at the still-sheepish Joseph. “But, you can’t worm your way out of learning the spell, if you do want to see them.” That earned a chuckle, but Theodosia still felt uneasy. Unbalanced.

It seemed that this was obvious, as Joseph’s eyes furrowed lightly. “Are you alright, Theo?”

Without thinking, she shook her head. “I haven’t been the best during the past few years. And,” Theodosia eyed Joseph carefully, “I’m sure you know what just happened with my father.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Joseph chuckled shyly. “I didn’t want to bring it up first.” They stayed silent for a few steps, and then Joseph asked, “do you want to sit down anywhere?”

“Anywhere but the park.”

Joseph laughed, not understanding her reasoning. Theodosia didn’t think she was able to.

 

* * *

 

It soon came time for Joseph to return to South Carolina. By this time, they were already pretty serious, so that they were already discussing plans for marriage, and for the future.

She did not know how, but Theodosia had some basic understanding that, despite the fact that she did love Joseph, it wasn’t quite strong enough, and wouldn’t ever be, to constitute a Bond. That sort of magic was very powerful, and rare. It had been a shock of a lifetime when Theodosia had learned that Mr Hamilton had Bonded twice.

Nevertheless, Theodosia agreed to move down to South Carolina with Joseph. It wasn’t exactly a decision, since as soon as the option became available to her, she realized just how much she wanted to leave New York City. How much she wanted to leave the streets that held so many melancholy memories, ones that held a girl and a boy and a ghost. She hated how the people looked at the girl with pitying looks, for either her father, or the boy, or some unconscious nod to the ghost, who they didn’t even know to mourn.

When the option came to her, Theodosia took it without hesitation.

 

* * *

 

For the first few weeks, the heat of muggy South Carolina weighed upon Theodosia heavily. Over and over, she cursed her inability to cast a cooling spell. Instead, she wore breeches around the house, since her skirts were acting like an oven would.

She vaguely wondered if it might do her well to go out and meet the local spirits. There were many stories of non-lucid ghosts who could be heard at night, alone and wailing for the friends they had during life. There was also talk of malicious souls, but Theodosia heavily doubted this. Any ghost that had ill-intents would become visible to whoever was in danger, and Theodosia, who’d interrogated guests about these stories, had never been able to get a concrete appearance. Fiction, then.

It irritated Theodosia to no end, the misinformation being spread. She thought that, maybe, the heat of the South might be warping the minds of those exposed to it. She had taken to ranting about it into the late hours of the night when Joseph was home (and scribbling angrily into a journal when he wasn’t) whenever exposed to the ignorance that was what Theodosia had dubbed ‘ghost rumor.’

“It’s _insidious,_ is what it is,” Theodosia huffed one night,  crossing and uncrossing her legs while sitting on a puffy chair. “All the misinformation is practically begging for an area free of malintentive ghosts to be the victim of an exorcism ritual- and those affect the surrounding magics for _years_ to come, and feel like claustrophobia.”

A bit cautiously, Joseph suggested, “you could always decide to make it known that you’re a medium. Having alternate manifest isn’t quite the same down here.”

“Yes, but being a _medium_ is, I’m afraid.” Theodosia chewed on her lip. “Letting it be known that I’m a medium would be dangerous for all of us.” While the sentiment echoed through the room, Theodosia and Joseph both looked over to the crib at the opposite side of the room. “I can’t do that. People are dangerous when they’re grieving. I can’t be the one to put us in danger.”

Softly, Joseph shook his head. “You need to do _something._ It’s eating you up from the inside out.” When Theodosia refused to look his way, he sighed, and presumably looked away too. Then, with a bit of an offhand tone of voice, he mused, “you could always anonymously publish a book on the subject. Dispelling rumors, providing facts, different spells for the next medium that comes along. And nobody would know that it was you, because I would be the messenger, and I work with a lot of different people. They’d have no reason to suspect the author to be you.”

After thinking about it for a moment, Theodosia bit her lip. “I’m not sure. I mean, as far as I know, there’s never been a nonfiction book in print about any sort of magic. But,” Theodosia said to herself, the gears in her head turning, “there’s always been enough resources that’ve been written by hand. Nobody thinks that there’s any real need for any new resources after the Magical Revolution. But there were some subjects that were never even researched, including the dead and mediumship.

“Yes,” she said with a determined nod. “I think your idea is _perfect.”_ In response, Joseph gave a proud smile. However, just milliseconds afterwards, the baby, who’d previously been asleep, began wailing. “Oh god, please, Joseph, it’s your turn, right?”

Her husband walked up to the armchair that she was lounging in, and kissed her forehead. “I forget for sure, so let’s just say it’s me.”

“Thank you so much,” Theodosia called, before slumping in her chair out of relief. _Well,_ she thought to herself, _it’s time to write, then._

 

* * *

 

The book was finished in just under three years.

It wasn’t a proper spellbook. Those were enchanted, and were just as much a magical object as they recorded magic. They could curse the reader if not handled properly, even. Their danger was a large part of why many people only learned everyday household charms that had been passed on through word of mouth. Spellbooks were also written in archaic languages, from Old English to Latin or Greek or Arabic or Sanskrit. The rare chance that a spellbook in English was found, it was a translation that was riddled with many errors, probably by an amateur or student.

That was why Theodosia included a companion book of sorts, that explained the basics of magic and a few basic spells that she thought everyone should know, but were too complex to be taught person-to-person. It was published in the same binding as the book itself, but was considered separate.

The true foreword revealed little about Theodosia’s personal life. She explained her dissatisfaction with the rampant misinformation that was considered common knowledge, about her extensive training in all sorts of magic, and then she revealed that she had alternate manifest.

She explained her experiences, from having it instilled into her since before she could read that she was different, and that her differences could destroy any hopes that she had of a normal life. She wrote about how lonely she’d grown up to be, how she had befriended her studies rather than any other being, speaking only to her father and the dead.

She wrote of an unnamed ghost with a penchant for protectiveness and an unnamed boy that had alternate manifest too. She wrote of an unlikely friendship, she wrote of the same thing being ripped away from her, she wrote of loneliness, and she wrote of building herself back up. She wrote of discovery, she wrote of finding a place for herself. She wrote of a new purpose.

The book itself detailed the workings of the dead more than anything else. No, ghosts were not necessarily all murdered. No, you can’t see ghosts if they don’t have malintent against you. She elaborated on how spirits were affected by the physical world, and what limitations they had on interacting with it. All of her observations about the senses that magics and wards gave. Her experiments were all outlined in detail, copied directly from her old notebook, though they had been organized for publication.  

The other part of the book, however, was her manual for alternate manifests in general, and mediums specifically.

_As a person with alternate manifest, you might find yourself thinking that your alternate manifest is some small part of you, so small that you can continue on in the shoes of somebody without your gift. These thoughts are an inherent falsehood. Your alternate manifest will shape who you are. It will shape how you perceive your world and those who inhabit it. Your magic is unique to you, no matter how many people have claimed the same category of powers. There are no others who will experience mediumship in the same way that I have. But we are stronger when we band together, as I have learned through two separate meetings. We rise, and we fall, together._

Everyone had read _A Publication On Alternate Manifest And The Influences Of The Dead_ (written by _‘The Living Ghost’)_ only months after its publication. It was praised universally as a written masterpiece, the first modern book on magic. “A wonderful mix of prose and academics,” said a houseguest one night. “Explained to me some spells that I was too embarrassed to ask for help with. And the portion on ghosts and the like was a real eye-opener; found out I’d been spreading a load of wishwash in the ways of ghost stories. I actually sent a letter to all of my frequent dinnermates apologizing, and recommending them to read that publication. Why, Mrs Alston, have you read it yet? I have a feeling that it’s right up your alley…”

Of course, she had merely laughed politely and expressed that she’d read the thing practically ten times over, already.

Most of her guests found some way to bring up what was becoming known as _The Publication On The Dead,_ or simply, _The Publication._ Theodosia, of course, had found herself wondering about the implications of her textbook being hailed as above the rest rather than as revolutionary, the pioneer of a _new genre._ The ideal was for others to take in her footsteps and commit their knowledges to the printing press.

Her worries were soon assuaged, however, as six months after _A Publication On Alternate Manifest And The Influences Of The Dead,_ the first imitation was published. Afterwards, the number of printed books on magic soared exponentially, and Theodosia breathed in the information, the knowledge, the _wisdom,_ at every chance she got.

 

* * *

 

There was a trend, among these printed texts. It started with _The Publication,_ and was expected in every book that had followed the original. Readers sometimes collected the tomes just for this one reflection on the author, to peruse it and speculate on the author’s intent.

It was a dedication page, at the very start of the book. No person was ever named. Instead, their identity was cloaked in riddles that would only be obvious to the author (who was traditionally, though not always, cloaked under a pseudonym) and the person the dedication was meant for. The community that had popped up around the sudden genre had a list of all known pseudonyms and their dedications, but everyone who was anyone had memorized _The Living Ghost’s_ dedication.

_Dedicated to Mrs Blue,_ it read, _the mother of my brother. The strongest person I know._

It escaped nobody’s notice when a small publishing company in New York published a book on rituals with the author by the name of _The Blue Lady._

_Dedicated to Ghost Girl, the sister of my son,_ it read. _You were always destined for great things._

 

* * *

 

The Alstons had a shelf. No books were allowed on it, Joseph constantly had to remind Theodosia, who had a tendency to seemingly create books out of the void to spill onto any flat surface. The shelf was for knick-knacks and mementos: miniature portraits, drawings from their son, framed letters, et cetera, et cetera.

“My books are just as dear to me as anything up there,” Theodosia had once pleaded.

But the memory shelf was Joseph’s pet project, that he’d cultivated from nothing and allowed to grow into a quintessential part of their home. He refused to put anything up there that he didn’t deem worthy. While Theodosia pretended to pout, she wasn’t truly upset. She understood his want, and respected it, beyond the occasional teasing, but nothing was meant in earnest. She snuck books onto the shelves at night if only to see how long it would take for him to notice, and then they would chase each other through the halls, laughing jovially.

That’s why, when Theodosia returned indoors after an outdoor excursion to find two books on Joseph’s shelf, the names _The Living Ghost_ and _The Blue Lady_ next to each other, she burst into silent tears.

 

* * *

 

Her son was dead.

He’d only spent a decade on this Earth.

No ghost came into existence as the frail boy drew in his, last, shaky breath.

If it was any consolation to anybody, he had been asleep when it happened, but Theodosia and Joseph had been keeping vigil.

Three hands held together, two pulses beating.

“I was supposed to meet him the month before,” Theodosia remembered saying.

Her father, after being accused for treason, had returned from a short self-exile, and she had been expected to meet him in New York.

She had been laying down, and Joseph was stroking her arm.

Hand holding wasn’t romantic, anymore.

“You’re not well enough for the journey. It’s been rescheduled for the end of the year.”

Theodosia wanted to protest, to say that she was fine, to pack up her bags and leave on the next ship.

The only thing that came out of her mouth was, “ten years, Joseph.”

“I know. God help us both, but I know.”

 

* * *

 

Almost six months later, Theodosia stood on the bow of a ship called the Patriot. Her eyes scanned over the crowd, and she smiled when she saw Joseph, waving a bit of fabric to get her attention. When he saw Theodosia looking at him, Joseph held out an arm, as if to shake Theodosia’s faraway hand. Returning the gesture, Theodosia thought that maybe it was all as well that Joseph’s job prevented him from coming to New York with her.

She wasn’t worried, after all. Judging from the grumbly old man that her father had sent up with her, everyone else thought that she would somehow be unable to handle the steady rocking of the boat.

Did no one else feel this swell of pride that Theodosia felt?

She survived the majority of her childhood alone. She hid the fact that she had alternate manifest despite her father’s quasi-celebrity status. When she felt curious, she took action and sculpted out a new life for herself. She took part in research that proceeded to _shape the world_ instead of sitting around with the others, vaguely wondering. She wrote what was practically a diary, and caused a revolution that would shape the world forever. She survived the death of her brother, the death of her son.

She did so much. She felt so powerful, so strong. As she let her outstretched hand fall, she noted to herself how it felt to be raised above the general population by the ship, as if she were some ruler over her subjects.

Somehow, it was not a foreign feeling.

After the ship departed, Theodosia let herself go below decks to her cabin. It was small, but nothing that made her feel claustrophobic. She set to check over her luggage, so that she might know what Joseph had packed for her. He worried too much, refusing to give Theodosia the benefit of the doubt. She appreciated it, of course. She knew that it was his own way of expressing his concern, but Theodosia felt that if she did not understand that about Joseph, that she would quickly become short-tempered and annoyed.

Even now, she was huffing a bit, thinking of all of his coddling and worrying. She opened her luggage, not quite sure what she was looking for. What she found, however, was not what she had expected, especially not on this train of thought.

On the top of all the other luggage was a pair of Joseph’s breeches. She laughed aloud, a clear, ringing sound. She thought of the time where she had walked to the market with Joseph while wearing a pair of breeches. It was a hot day, even for South Carolina, and Theodosia had found a pair of breeches that matched a dress’ jacket that she had lying about. She also had stolen some of his stockings. When it was time to leave, Joseph barely batted an eye. When people tried to shame Theodosia in the streets, he scornfully reminded them that, having helped Theodosia dress on occasion, he knew that her skirts were thicker than his winter bedsheets from New York, thank you very much.

She chuckled a bit more at the memory, and set the breeches aside. She would have to write a letter, thanking him.

 

* * *

 

The ship soon became small.

With Theodosia’s curious nature, she quickly took to exploring the ship. It wasn’t much time until she was acquainted with every hall and nook and cranny that she had access to. The layout of the ship soon became second nature to her, an ability learned from living in two cities and traveling often. She knew near all that was possible for her to know about the ship, and Theodosia became very bored when there was not much for her to learn.

As soon as exploring became a drained option, Theodosia took to eavesdropping on the crew. She quickly learned how to step without making a sound, how to peek around corners, how to hide in plain sight.

Of course, it wasn’t as if she were spying. It was merely a fun way to pass the time. Theodosia heard about how James had played a nasty trick on Francis that involved a few well-placed pixies, or how the Johnsons hadn’t taken well to their daughter marrying a sailor. She heard stories of pirates that were obviously made up but were entertaining nonetheless.

“Hey, you ever get to reading any of them Spellprints?” A conversation previously about the intricacies of sails and rope turned to Theodosia’s interests, thanks to the sailor that she had quickly learned was Francis. “They got some great ones on navigation, yaknow.”

Peeking around the corner sneakily, Theodosia saw the other man, John, roll his eyes at Francis. “God, Francis. Just ‘coz we’re sailors, don’t mean everything we read has to be about boats and sailing.”

“Have you read any, though?”

“...Yes.” John’s expression was so miffed that Theodosia had to hold in a chuckle.

Francis had no need to stay quiet, though, and spent a few minutes poking fun. “Honestly, though,” he said, losing his joking attitude and taking on a much more somber attitude, “I do want to know what you’ve heard.”

Leaning in more closely as to hear the lowered voices, Theodosia tried not to speculate without all the facts. There was definitely something going on, though.

“Only that simple stuff,” said John with a hint of frustration in his voice. “Sails and rigging spells, a ritual that gives you cardinal direction, that sorts-a thing.”

“Damn it,” Francis muttered, throwing his head back in a similar frustration. “I’m just about the only bastard on this ship that knows anything that’ll keep us through the storm.”

_The storm,_ Theodosia’s mind repeated once, twice, thrice, before it registered in her mind.

She retreated from the corner, pressing herself against the wall as Francis and John’s discussion dissolved into worried whispers.

Her eyebrows twitched up, and she made note of having finally found something out of importance. Then, it occurred to some rational part of her brain that, as a passenger on the ship, she should be alarmed by the news. Death was more than possible to the passengers of a ship caught in storm.

And despite the fact that she did not know why, Theodosia found herself utterly undaunted by this news.

 

* * *

 

The signs of storm soon became apparent. It was a nasty thing, dark as night. It was close enough to be an imminent threat and far enough away that it created a sense of foreboding that could not be escaped.

That was, it could not be escaped by anyone but Theodosia.

As a pall of slow-set horror crept through every small corner of the ship, Theodosia watched impassively with a sort of interest that scientists reserved for an important experiment of theirs. She had felt it before, having once dedicated her life to experiments, and by god had she missed it.

She heard harried snippets of conversation among crewmen and fellow passengers. At all times, at least five people were staring at the storm with something almost like warning in their eyes, as if to scare away the steadily approaching maw. Theodosia didn’t bother with anything but eavesdropping. She was wearing her pair of breeches everywhere, now, since everybody else was distracted from what Theodosia was tired of arguing over.

She longed for one thing: information. Her greatest source of any distress was exasperation at not-knowing, and though she overall felt as placid as she ever was, a little part of her was craving the simple pleasure of comprehension.

It never occurred to her _what_ she might be failing to comprehend, even as she leaned on the ship’s railing and stared calmly at the dark mass that flashed with lightning periodically.

_What do I want?_

It rang through her head with perfect clarity, that question.

What did she want, what did she want?

When she wasn’t struggling for scraps of conversations of no use to her, she thought endlessly of _what did she want._ It was just another question, another piece of information that she needed like water.

 

* * *

 

The day that the storm hit, all of the passengers were told to avoid going on the deck. Theodosia, of course, ignored this. She’d donned her breeches once again, and was standing at the bow of the ship. The crew was too busy keeping the ship afloat to yell at her to go below deck. _“If that girl got herself a death wish, then so be it!”_ she heard somebody shout. She thought it was Francis.

The waves lapped up at Theodosia as rain poured from above, slicking her hair down and sticking it to her neck. Still, she felt no seasickness, or fear, or horror. She wore an earnest mask, staring out over the rocky sea with a hard-set determination that earned wary looks from the sailors.

Did they think that she was some vengeful storm spirit, only disguised as a passenger? There were recorded cases of it happening before. Theodosia meant no harm, though. Nor did she mean to inspire any fear. However, she had a feeling that her presence wasn’t what was causing the slowing of spells, causing shouts that had been previously brave and loud to become lost to the howling wind.

It was at the point now that, if she closed her eyes, she could imagine being completely alone in the storm, rocking on a boat that was kept afloat by her own willpower. The rain, drenching her, the wind, shoving her. If only she closed her eyes.

When she did open them, it was to face a dark-as-night wave’s roar. Still with her impassive mask, she faced the wave head on, eyes fixed firmly on that which would drag her into the storming ocean.

It hurt. Her ribs ached and her limbs felt fake.

She looked towards what she thought might’ve been up, and saw a fork of lightning outline the silhouette of the bottom of the ship.

In some disconnected part of her mind, she remembered reading that drowning victims lost control of their limbs, their instincts forcing them to flail in some lost attempt to push upwards, towards the crashing storm. But Theodosia did not flail, did not lose control of her limbs. She just felt that same sense of calm that she had felt all throughout the journey.

No, it wasn’t _calm._ Not impassivity. The closest she had pegged down was the impression of being a scientist, an experimenter.

This was _surety._

Her lungs were burning, and so by instinct she’d practiced twenty-thousand times a day for her entire life, she breathed in, and water filled her lungs. There were a few moments of more burning, but she was soon faced with something like floating in a dark fog, not hearing nor seeing nor feeling anything that might be of note.

What must’ve been her last thought was, _now, now is what he had meant by ‘soon.’_ Somehow, she sighed, though whether out or relief or satisfaction or grim acceptance, she could not tell.

Somewhere in the fog/water, Theodosia saw familiar eyes, bittersweet in expression.

A hand reached out, and Theodosia took it.


	5. five o’clock in the morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow ive never posted a chapter from my phone before but here i am. sorry for any formatting errors that may result from it, but i’ll check to make sure once i get home.  
> Nonetheless, here’s the epilogue. enjoy!

Everything was covered in a wind-swept haze, the Sun shining gently on a tree-lined path. It looked to be completely unattended, but wasn’t overgrown with weeds. The branches above wove together, only letting the sunshine in through rays.

Philip was beside her and they walked through the path, arms linked. They were each sixteen or so, now, and spoke eagerly about Theodosia’s life after Philip had left. Almost on cue, the path ended abruptly when Theodosia had finished describing her death.

In front of them was a white two-story, surrounded in the front by a modest garden that seemed to grow fruits, vegetables, and some herbs. There was someone hunched over what looked to be asparagus, poking and prodding the plant as if he didn’t quite know how gardening worked. Even from the distance, Theodosia instantly recognized Mr Hamilton.

There was a brush of air from beside her, and suddenly Philip was rocketing forwards, nearly tripping over his own speed. Hamilton looked up suddenly, puzzled at first, but then his expression morphed into a great joy. He shouted Laurens’ name, but did not wait for the other man. Father and son barreled into each other, hugging tightly and grinning brightly.

Laurens’ appearance, for once, was far more dramatic than Alexander’s. One of the windows from the upper stories flew open, and Laurens stuck his head out. He’d been about to shout something, but instead caught sight of what was causing the commotion. His face instantly broke into a wild grin, even as he murmured a spell. He jumped out of the window, but came to a slow stop a few inches before the ground, landing softly.

Walking forwards now, Theodosia laughed a little bemusedly at Laurens’ show. Later, Hamilton would explain that in life, Laurens was always a bit of a reckless show-off with his magic. Getting it back after decades of being stuck without it had led to more than a few incidents where bones had been broken. Luckily though, in this world, broken bones were much less painful, and always healed cleanly and quickly. Falling ill was similarly decreased in severity.

They sat over tea, which Laurens completely denied brewing, and caught up on everything the others had missed.

For a long while, Laurens, Philip, and Theodosia recounted Laurens’ time as a spirit. Laurens, of course, started off. He explained waking up just outside of the Hamilton’s house, of knowing instinctively that this was his chance to say goodbye. He’d known about their Bond, Laurens elaborated, from a tediously extensive education on theoretical magics. Hamilton scoffed at this, feigning indignance at being “the only goddamn person not to know about that magic.”

Philip responded by muttering into his tea, “maybe because you never actually read your Tome,” which caused the rest of the table to burst out in laughter.

With some good-natured annoyance in his voice, Hamilton pointed out that he’d translated the Hebrew term differently. All that this did for his case was to give Laurens an opening to poke fun at the other man’s translation abilities in their sign, which prompted an explanation of that facet of life.

Theodosia listened to Laurens’ and Phillip’s dual explanation of testing the limits of their new existence, and was soon laughing at how shallow their research had actually dug. Philip had rolled his eyes, pointing out that Theodosia was the experimenter, and that he and Laurens had no idea what they were doing.

When it was Theodosia’s turn to speak, she described Joseph, and how much he’d helped her throughout everything. There must’ve been a lilt to her voice, because Hamilton put a hand on her shoulder and looked over at Laurens, prompting the other man to explain that every once in a while, the two of them had visitors. Only people who’ve already died, though, so she would have to wait.

Their conversation ended soon after that. Hamilton returned outside to continue ‘gardening,’ Laurens excused himself to an upstairs office, and Phillip and Theodosia both took it upon themselves to settle into rooms of their own.

A sort of blurred-through life began, one with fluid time so that Theodosia and Philip constantly shifted from anywhere between six years old and twenty. Laurens practically always stayed twenty or so. Hamilton was also in his early twenties for the most part, but he was sometimes seen with a few grey hairs. (One time, there was a visitor just for Hamilton, and before Laurens pulled Theodosia and Philip into the office to give Hamilton his privacy, Theodosia could have sworn that she saw Hamilton as a teenager.)

Theodosia was taught how to load and shoot a musket like a soldier would’ve, but never quite had the accuracy that both Hamilton and Laurens showed. Philip refused to even come out of the house when the musket was loaded, however, claiming from out of a second story window that he ‘didn’t want to spend eternity with a musket ball stuck in his arm or something,’ and that ‘the vegetables can make do with the lack of surgeons around here.’

It was pleasurable overall, though Theodosia bemoaned her ability to break bones when she wound up on the ground after attempting to scale a tree. Out of the four of them, she and Laurens had the greatest ability to gain injury. Hamilton was soon rescinded from gardening chores once it became obvious that any plant under his care withered quickly, and Laurens took back his garden, but not without a few losses. Philip had an uncanny tendency to fall ill, but he liked to deny it so much that he barely spent any time in bed, anyways.

It seemed that their little home wasn’t just about to give them a ‘perfect’ life, and Theodosia thought that it was brilliant. Somewhere without even these minor hardships, it would be a good place to visit, but a terrible place to live forever.

Visitors came often and unexpectedly. Some of the few returning visitors included somebody that Hamilton and Laurens had known from the war named Meade, a woman named Peggy that reminded Theodosia of Eliza, Joseph after a while, and someone named Hercules that always seemed to leave with either Hamilton or Laurens (or both) resting for a broken limb.

One by one, more and more visitors arrived. Lafayette, Angelica, Theodosia’s father, Philip’s siblings. None of them stayed at the house, like Philip and Theodosia had done. She wondered how many paths connected to theirs, or if the other spirits just wandered about. The four of them didn’t visit others, and Theodosia didn’t know of any other house in the woods. No other house in the woods that expanded based on current need, no other house where items that would have been bought at the store showed up at the doorstep periodically, no other house. None that she knew of.

But somehow, something overwhelmed her curiosity. Contentedness.

At least, it turned to contentedness after a certain event.

When it happened, Theodosia was helping Laurens plant some seeds out in the garden. Hamilton and Philip were at the opposite end, and were collaborating in trying to find the right spell to make a plant dance. The latter pair’s spellcasting was spoken in that quiet rhythm which was unique to spells, creating a comfortable sort of white noise that blended in to the sounds of scraping dirt and wind in leaves.

Typically, when visitors came, there was a little chill that would alert everybody, and all four of them would rush out to greet whoever had shown up. The visitor would come out of the path, usually a little disoriented.

So, when a person’s shadow appeared, standing frozen still at the path’s entrance, Theodosia found herself hoping, but it had been so long...

Laurens looked up at Theodosia when she paused in shifting the dirt, and then followed her gaze. From behind them, Hamilton and Philip still muttered in turn, apparently distracted from what Laurens and Theodosia were looking at. Time seemed frozen for a good while, but eventually Theodosia stood up, and ran towards the Blue Lady.

She hugged Mrs Hamilton tightly, like the other woman might disappear otherwise. Mrs Hamilton, who’d been elderly but recognizable, shifted so that she looked the same as when the two of them went on their walks together. Theodosia instinctively knew that the same happened to her. They exchanged quick oh-god-I-missed-yous before Philip and Hamilton finally ran up, half-suffocating Eliza in a three-way hug.

Walking a bit hesitantly towards the group was Laurens. After reasoning that it must’ve been him to alert Philip and Hamilton, she noticed the odd expression on his face. Anxious, maybe even embarrassed or guilty. Theodosia felt a pang of sympathy in her chest. It couldn’t be easy, not when you were meeting the wife of your boyfriend and the mother of the boy that you’d haunted for the vast majority of the boy’s life.

By the time that Laurens had reached the group, Eliza had pulled out of the hug. She looked lovingly at the people standing around her: her husband, Philip, and Theodosia, but then her gaze landed on Laurens, and it was ever so slightly different. Cheeks flushing, Laurens looked down at his feet. But instead of scolding Laurens, as the man’s posture showed he expected, Eliza walked forwards and hugged the man just as she had with everyone else. For a moment, Laurens looked wide-eyed and concerned, as if Eliza had made a mistake she would later become upset over. But no such thing happened, and he shut his eyes and hugged back, obviously grateful. “Thank you,” Eliza whispered too low for Philip or Hamilton to hear. “For looking out for them all, I mean.”

In response, Laurens just nodded, looking overwhelmed. Then, Eliza drew out of the hug, and looked around at the other four people, at the edge if the path. She smiled wide, with tears in her eyes. “I’m so happy to see all of you again.”

Strangely enough, it was Laurens who responded. He nodded slowly, and said, “we can finally start living like how it should’ve been.”

Theodosia felt her mind pull her back to when Hamilton had died, and Laurens had announced his desire for ‘how it should’ve been.’ Later, she had wondered how long the man had been craving the idea. Now, she realized that everybody here- including herself- had been feeling the same need for as long as they could remember.

Laurens, Philip, Hamilton, Theodosia, and Eliza walked back as a family of five, all of them ready for how it should’ve been.


End file.
